


A Little Courage

by chelsietea



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 05:45:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 41,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chelsietea/pseuds/chelsietea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the death of her son, Isobel finds comfort in Richard and, as their relationship blossoms, Charles tries to take up his courage to sort things out with Elsie.<br/>Set after the third season Christmas Special. Charles/Elsie, Richard/Isobel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1. Embracing Changes

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everybody! This is my first attempt to write something Downton Abbey related - if you like or don't like something feel free to write a message or leave a review.  
> All my thanks go to the lovely ms-obsessive-compulsive (on Tumblr) for beta-reading!

Chapter One: Embracing Changes

 

He kicked a pebble out of his way as he walked to Crawley House.  
It was a lovely morning, the sky was bright blue and the sun shone despite the chilly air. The birds sang and the flowers had started sprouting up from the ground: spring was coming. 

It was as if the world wanted to cheer him up…but nothing could cheer him up, not really, not when he was going to visit the woman he cared about. The only woman he cared about.

They had seen each other after Lady Mary gave birth, when he had tried to apologize and she had shrugged all off simply giving him a smile, saying she didn’t know what he was talking about - she simply understood, she always had.

He hadn’t had the chance to see her during the funeral or soon after and, when he finally had the occasion, even if gloomy, the sight he had been confronted with had been terrible.

She had always been a strong woman, but she was in such a state he couldn’t help but worry - of course, she had just lost her son, but he really wasn’t accustomed to seeing her like that.

She was tidy and impeccable as usual, but her eyes were red and puffy, her complexion more pale than ever and, to a closer observer, her cheeks appeared hollow because of the tears she had shed.

He hadn’t had the slightest idea of what to do, he simply tried to convey in the best way possible how much he was concerned about her: he had tried to be warm, polite and careful about her feelings. She appeared so frail, so small; the iron lady suddenly transformed into a porcelain doll.

Since then, he had started coming round at her house every morning after his early rounds at the hospital. The first time he went to offer his formal condolences for her son’s death he had intended to remain there for what was strictly necessary; he hadn’t wanted to disturb or annoy her in any way but she, instead, had asked him to stay for a bit longer than he should have. He ended up visiting her again the day after, concerned about her well-being.

Now, here he was again, knocking lightly on the front door and, after a few minutes, Molesley came to answer.

“Good morning, Doctor Clarkson. How are you today?”

“Quite fine, Mr Molesley, thank you. How is Mrs Crawley doing?”

“As would be expected. She’s in the drawing room, I think.”

Molesley led him through the hallway in the same way he did every day, as if Richard might forget where the drawing room was.

“Doctor Clarkson here to see you, Mrs Crawley.”

“Thank you, Molesley, show him in.”

She was sitting on the settee with her back to him, probably embroidering. 

“Good morning, Mrs Crawley,” he greeted.

“Good morning, Doctor Clarkson,” she replied politely, glancing up at him from her work. “I hope your rounds went well.”

“They did, thank you.”

They remained in silence for a few seconds, he was not sure how to continue the conversation and Molesley’s presence didn’t help the awkwardness.

She looked over her shoulder and caught a glimpse of the butler standing in the doorway.

“Would you like something to drink?” she asked Richard.

“Oh no, thank you,” Richard replied hastily.

Molesley bowed slightly and exited, closing the door after him.

She offered him a little smile before resuming her work in silence, now used to see him every day.

He took a seat next to her on the settee. They had recently grown closer, and neither of the two thought it inappropriate to sit like that, so close to one another…they were grown up people, right? The most important thing is that they were friends, good friends, there was nothing improper in that.

He observed her work of needle and thread. Molesley had mentioned that she started it the day after Matthew’s death.

He never thought of her as a woman interested in embroidery or sewing, not that she wasn’t able to, she obviously managed well, but he had always thought of her as an independent woman with strong beliefs and different interests from the ones of the ladies upstairs in Downton Abbey.  
He never thought she would actually spend her time embroidering but he wasn’t bothered by this. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her hands as they worked, or off of her lips as they moistened the thread to thread it into the eye of the needle.

She didn’t seem to notice how he followed her every expert movement with his eyes, how he bent slightly forward when they started making conversation.

“It’s getting on very well, isn’t it?”

She turned her head away from her work, rather surprised. “I didn’t know you were interested in embroidering, Doctor Clarkson.”

He chuckled at her remark and she smiled a little.

“I am not,” he replied, “but my mother was very good; she used to tell me stories while sewing or embroidering, when I was a child.”

“Did she?” she asked, continuing her work without looking at him.

“She did, and what stories she told me! There was one I liked in particular…”

She looked up at him, encouraging him to continue.

“I don’t think it would be proper for a lady,” he said rather sheepishly.

“It was a proper story for a child, why not for a lady?” Her voice was stern, but her eyes teasing.

“Maybe another time,” he suggested. She looked slightly disappointed.

“As you wish, Doctor Clarkson.”

“I wish you would call me Richard,” he spoke, almost exasperated by her use of formalities.

She stared at him, not hiding her surprise. 

“I’m sorry, Mrs Crawley, I spoke without thinking,” he said quickly, worried by her shock.

“No, that’s fine,” she smiled. “I’ll call you Richard if you call me Isobel.”

He smiled, “Well then. Isobel.” He repeated her name softly, savoring the sound of it on his lips.

She looked down at her hands with a bashful smile and he couldn't help but think that maybe things would change for the better... he might help her through her misery and, why not, take part in her life. He would like that very much.


	2. Chapter Two: Unspoken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good afternoon, readers! I just wanted to thank you all for your reviews and your support, it's really appreciated. Hope you'll like this chapter as well :)

**Chapter Two: Unspoken**

The clatter of spoons and forks and the quiet chatter resounded in the servant's hall that morning as Daisy entered quietly with a big bowl of porridge and started serving it with a wooden ladle.

The whole room was humming with the excitement that precedes a departure; the family was going to London for a few weeks and, as per usual, some of the staff was going with them.

The Crawleys had decided it inappropriate to stay in London for the whole season due to the recent death of Matthew.

Lady Mary was strong, but his death had left her distraught. The family thus thought it appropriate to spend a little time in London to distract her.

Elsie brought a spoonful of porridge to her mouth with reluctance. Her stomach was sour and her insides felt intricately woven into knots; she could barely eat.

In front of her, O'Brien was mumbling under her breath, clearly cross about leaving. The season was tiring for every servant, but even more so for a ladies' maid. O'Brien grumbled every year. Anna was talking cheerfully to Mr Bates; they were both excited to leave. It was their first season since the wedding, and even though it would give them little opportunity to spend time together, after his year in prison they didn't seem to mind so much the…

"How are you this morning, Mrs. Hughes?"

_…separation._

His deep voice startled her. "I'm fine, why do you ask?" She responded.

"You are unnaturally silent today. And not very interested in your porridge either," he pointed out, though a bit of amusement remained in his voice.

She had to bite back a smile; was the man playing her mother now?  
"These are busy days, Mr Carson, I'm just tired."

_Liar._

He gave her a knowing look. "When the family leaves perhaps you can relax a bit."

She nodded, "I think I will, the maids have worked well, after all." She played with the spoon in the porridge bowl; she didn't usually play with her food, her mother had always scolded her. "It's not lady-like" her voice boomed in Elsie's head. But today… today she didn't care.

He noticed her strange behaviour. Not eating was so unlike her, she was a woman of strong appetite and she never wasted or played with food. Something was clearly troubling her and he wanted to discover what it was before he made his departure - he hadn't much time.

Elsie put her spoon down with exasperation. She couldn't eat if she wanted to, there was no reason to pretend.

"Are you sure you are feeling well?" he inquired carefully.

She sighed, keeping herself from rolling her eyes. "I am, Mr Carson, I've already told you. There's nothing for you to worry about."

_Almost nothing._

"It's just… I've never seen you not eating at breakfast," he protested.

"I'm not hungry today, that's all," she said her voice now tinged with annoyance.

_Liar._

He didn't know how to reply, he couldn't force her to eat something, he wasn't her mother, nor her father, nor her… He shook his head imperceptibly; he mustn't think about that, he had no right, no right at all.

_…husband._

She clasped her hands in her lap, not looking at him and chewing the inside of her mouth.

" _It's just a few weeks, you stupid cow, he won't be gone for the whole season_ " she thought to herself. She couldn't stop thinking how much she would miss him, she was used to see him every single day… they had grown so much closer this past year…

They had always been friends. But for years their relationship consisted of discussing their work day and they didn't know much of each other. She hadn't known he had been on stage until a few weeks before and he had known very little about her family and her life before Downton. But lately, after her cancer scare, Lady Sybil's death, and then Mr Crawley's… she suddenly found herself seeking (needing) his company. She shuddered at the mere thought of the past year's events. However, she didn't exactly regret everything that had happened… it had brought them closer. He'd lowered his defenses for her, that stern façade behind which he constantly hid. It had given her more courage.

They still faced the same old problems of course. He didn't accept changes freely; he was still struggling to accept the fact that the world wasn't the same after the war, that they weren't the same anymore. Despite that, they'd spent more and more lovely evenings talking to each other after their long and tiring work day had ended. They discussed the running of the household, as they were usually accustomed, but also about their views on that topic or another, about their lives before Downton and their families (even if he always said the Crawleys were the only family he had).

She felt nearer to him than ever before. It was as if that invisible wall she had built to protect herself and avoid jeopardizing her job was crumbling down. She could feel the cracks in every single brick; it was as if he was taking that wall down, brick by brick.

And now she found that she couldn't bear losing him even for a few months. After all they had gone through, she feared that the barrier she hated so much would rebuild itself during his absence because of the distance. And she realized… she wanted him to keep breaking it down. He usually wrote to her but she didn't think he would this time. It was just a few months this time after all (and why would he? She meant nothing to him).

She got up from her seat slowly, and walked back to her parlour, Carson staring at her strangely as she exited.

She stood in the hall, watching the footmen carrying heavy suitcases and keeping a close eye on the maids to assure herself everything was running smoothly in spite of the departure of the family.

After the suitcases were securely packed in the cars, he came upstairs with his coat on and his bowler hat in hand, to join the other servants in their car.

"Well then, Mrs. Hughes, I wish you a pleasant break," he smiled warmly.

He wished he was able to understand the reason of her worry, why she was biting her bottom lip as she usually did when something was bothering her - not that he didn't appreciate her concerned look and the way her teeth tortured her rosy lips, but he would have liked to see her more serene… it irked him that he hadn't discovered the source of her worry, and now he was leaving and it was too late.

" _What is troubling you?_ " He thought to himself.

"I don't know how much of a break it will be," she replied, "There's so much to do while the family is away and we have even less time than usual."

"I'm sure you'll manage perfectly well," he stated.

She nodded, smiling slightly, a question on the tip of her tongue.  
" _Will you write?_ " But she wouldn't, couldn't say those words.

They remained in silence for a few seconds, but to them it seemed an eternity. They stood there, frozen, looking at each other in the eyes (his dark brown eyes, so beautiful she could lose herself in their depth… her shining blue eyes that turned to grey like the sea water during a tempest…) while a single thought was running in their heads.

_What is troubling you?_

_Will you write?_

Then he tore his eyes away from hers and cleared his throat, waking her from her reverie.

"I think I should go then."

_Will you write?_

"Of course. Have a good journey."

_What is troubling you?_

"Thank you, Mrs Hughes. Goodbye."

_Will you write?_

He tipped his hat before entering the car and closing the door after him.

Elsie waved her hand at him, Bates, and Anna as the car disappeared down the driveway.

She should have asked him… she didn't think she could bear not hearing from him for that long. She knew she would miss him terribly and she despised herself for not having spoken her thoughts out loud. But then, weren't they accustomed to live exactly like this? To restrain themselves from speaking their minds not only with the family but also between each other?

She sighed, feeling the weight of those unspoken words on her heart.

_Will you write to me, Mr Carson?_

_Will you write to me…_

_Charles?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews make my day. Thank you for reading.


	3. Chapter Three: An Invitation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good afternoon! Just wanted to thank you for being so kind in your reviews, if you made it this far you're really great!
> 
> I put Richard's flashback in italics because my wonderful beta Ame pointed out it might be best for those of you who have the courage to read this ;)

**Chapter Three: An Invitation**  
  
Aside from the slow ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece, one could hear a pin drop in the room.  
He shifted uncomfortably on the settee; Isobel, on the other hand, was embroidering quietly, a slight frown on her forehead as she concentrated.  
  
She had improved considerably the past few months, the embroidery seemed to help the pain. A sudden fleeting thought flashed into his mind, and he briefly wondered (hopefully) if his presence could be bringing her some comfort too.  
  
 _When Molesley had led him to the drawing room for the first time she had been sitting on the same settee, her eyes fixed intently on the embers in the fireplace. She hadn’t welcomed him nor even shown that she had recognized him - her exterior appeared hard and cold; her body as useless as a broken toy and almost as lifeless.  
_  
 _After Molesley left them, Richard had spoken briefly, offering his sympathy, but she barely acknowledged what he said. He wanted a reaction out of her, any reaction! He made a split second decision: something improper and unnecessary. “The devil with propriety”, he thought, “this woman needs someone to shake her out of her trance…i want her to feel again.”  
  
“How are you, Mrs. Crawley?” He had asked quietly, kneeling in front of her, “How are you, truly?”  
  
She looked away from the embers, the heat still in her gaze. It quickly transformed into a cold one.  
  
Despite her cold face, her voice had been hoarse with emotion when she started speaking. “How am I supposed to feel, Dr Clarkson? My son died a week ago, leaving my young daughter in law and my newborn grandson behind, how am I supposed to feel?” Her tone had transformed into an icy one that matched her face. It made him shiver. Despite that, he had continued to watch her intently, deciding not to reply.  
  
“How am I supposed to feel now that my only reason to live, to go on, is… gone?” She put all her best efforts in making her tone even. “Now that my only bond to my husband is gone?”, she had added, raising her voice a bit.  
  
“Do you have the slightest idea of what I actually feel? No, you don’t, Dr Clarkson, you don’t because you do not have children and you aren’t a woman, a mother - you are a man and men have the misfortune (or fortune in this case) not to experience these feelings. Nothing compares to a mother’s love, Dr Clarkson. Nothing.” Her voice had cracked on her last words, then she had lowered it until it was barely a murmur. “Please, avoid asking such questions.”  
  
“You’re right. I don’t understand and I never will”, he had whispered, tearing his eyes away from her and looking out of the window.  
  
He had upset her, of course, but she had the chance to give vent to her feelings, hadn’t she?  
  
Richard had understood she wasn’t utterly lifeless; she still had a spark of life, of heat, a poor reflection of what she had been before - then he had heard a sob and his heart cracked in two.  
  
He had turned to find her crying silently, her shoulders slumped and her back raising rhythmically to match her sobs. He had made his way to the settee, and sat down next to her. “Mrs Crawley, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to…”  
  
“I know you didn’t mean it, Doctor. I know you’d never cause any harm,” she had interrupted him between her tears. “It’s just… it’s so hard, Dr Clarkson. I’ve always been the strong one, especially when Reginald died…I had to be strong for Matthew, my darling boy… and now he’s gone and I don’t have anyone to be strong for anymore! I have no one who needs me… he’s gone and I’m still here.” Her voice cracked again, the pain now etched into the lining of her face.  
  
“I need you”, screamed a voice in his head. It literally broke his heart to see her so vulnerable, so fragile, this iron lady who never hesitated, nor faltered… and there she was, with her hollow eyes and miserable countenance.  
  
He couldn’t help but feel flattered that she had chosen him as her confidant, that she had allowed to see her breakdown. He felt special, in a way, because she had opened up with him and had talked so freely about her feelings. But he also knew he had to be careful and treat her with the utmost respect… _ she _was the fragile one now._  
  
“Please forgive my stupid question. Forgive me.”  
  
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Dr Clarkson. I know you didn’t mean it,” she had repeated.  
  
He would have liked to be swallowed by the earth on the spot. No, he hadn’t meant it, but he had actually hurt her with his question. “It makes me feel much better to apologize,” he had managed to reply. “I didn’t intend to hurt you, but I admit…it makes me glad to see you expressing your feelings.”  
  
“Thank you for that.”  
  
“You shouldn’t thank me, Mrs Crawley. I’d like very much to help you, if I can.” 

_He had instantly regretted what he had said: she would think him too forward, what he had implied was too improper, he had no right to say that, they had only spent a few nights together and she had turned him down. She could slap him in the face and he would accept it gladly. He mentally cursed himself.  
  
Isobel had looked at him with uncertainty and he had opened his mouth to apologize but she had interrupted him by putting her hand over his. The contact had made his hand tingle…he had hoped she hadn’t noticed it. He had searched her eyes for a hint of acknowledgment but they only showed warmth and pleasant surprise.  
  
“I don’t know how much you could help me, Doctor,” she had answered, “I’m probably past help… I’ve reached a point of no return” her voice changed to one of slight jest.  
  
“No one is past help, Mrs. Crawley, not even you. You just need to…” he had searched for an appropriate word, “get used to this,” he had opened his arms to indicate her loss, the emptiness left by her son.  
  
A shadow had passed in her brown eyes, “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it, Doctor. One can never get used to the death of their son.”  
  
“Maybe not, but you can learn to live with the pain.” He didn’t know how to convey what he meant: allow _ me _to help you, let_ me _ease your pain, I’d take care of you…  
  
The corner of her mouth had lifted upwards and she had murmured, “Maybe”._    
  
The sound of her voice brought him out of his memories. She was looking at him intently, slightly amused, “Doct… Richard, where are you? You seem miles away.” She smiled at her own mistake in addressing him.  
  
“I’m sorry, what were you saying?”  
  
“I was saying that the family is leaving today.” She finished.  
  
“The Crawleys?”  
  
She nodded, “They’re going to London”.  
  
He looked at her in surprise, “But… I thought…”  
  
“I know what you thought and they thought it as well until a few weeks ago. But removing Mary from Downton for a little while might distract her with the hustle and bustle of the big city.”  
  
“Yes, perhaps it will bring her some comfort. How long are they going to stay there?” He questioned.  
  
“Just two months, they’ll return here in May. You know they usually stay there from February till July. They might prolong their stay if they think it appropriate.”  
  
“Are you not going with them?” He asked, slightly confused.  
  
She was completely taken aback by his question. What should she say? She started to say she simply hadn’t wanted to leave, even if they had invited her to go with them. But… but then he would ask why.   
And what could she say?  
  
She couldn’t speak the truth, could she? She searched frantically for a proper answer in her head.  
  
The first thing that came to her mind was: " _I didn’t leave because I feel better here_ ".   
" _Yeah, this is perfect, you prefer staying at Downton, despite Matthew’s memories haunting you. Oh, please_ ", a voice pointed out in her head.  
  
“ _I didn’t leave because I feel better here, with my friends near me_ ,” she considered responding.  
" _What friends? You have no friends. You only had Matthew, he was your only bond to the family. You’re nothing to them now, they’re just being polite because they pity you_ ,” the nasty voice spoke up again.  
  
She knew what the truth was.  
" _I didn’t leave because I feel better since you started coming round every morning. I feel better because of you_ ".  
  
She couldn’t speak the truth. She had refused him once and he was there only as a friend. Nothing less, nothing more. He was kind enough for that.  
  
“Well, I guess… I guess I didn’t feel it proper. I’m not really a part of the family”, she answered in the truest way she could.  
“Matthew was my only bond to the Crawleys. Now that he’s gone…I don’t have the same place with them anymore.”  
  
No, he didn’t know what she meant, because to him she couldn’t be more in the right place. There, in that moment, with him…that was all that mattered.  
  
“So you decided to stay home.”  
  
She sighed inwardly, very relieved that he hadn’t chosen to inquire any further. “Yes, I did.”  
  
“Well then, I can’t say I’m not pleased about it,” he ventured.  
  
She smiled a little in response and her heart fluttered in her chest. _Sweet man.  
_  
He looked briefly at his own pocket watch and frowned. “Time flies. I’m sorry but I really must be on my way.”  
  
She nodded, understanding his reason, although she was a bit disappointed, “Of course.”  
  
“ _Ask him_ ,” screamed a voice in her head. “ _You’re just friends, aren’t you? So there’s nothing improper. Ask him._ ”  
  
He stood up and she followed him out of the room, leaving her embroidery on the settee. He put on his coat, took his hat from the hall stand and opened the front door.  
  
“ _Ask him._ ”  
  
“I’d better be off, then,” he announced with a smile.  
  
“ _Ask him._ ”  
  
She took a deep breath, before asking, “Why don’t you come round for dinner?”  
  
He turned and looked at her in silence for a brief moment, which to her seemed an eternity. His countenance was indecipherable.  
Then he spoke, “It would be my greatest pleasure. Thank you.”  
  
She almost sighed aloud in relief and half-smiled. “How about Friday at seven?”  
  
“Perfect. See you tomorrow,” he concluded before tipping his hat and making his way to the gate, feeling her eyes on his back as he walked away.  
  
Isobel leaned on the door and watched him intently, her heart beating faster than ever. “ _Oh Isobel, girl, you’re getting into trouble._ ” She thought to herself.  
  
It was going to be a very interesting night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thaaaaank you very much for your reviews. Because you were going to review, weren't you?


	4. Chapter Four: Non Plus Ultra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi darlings! I'm awfully sorry about the delay but I'm a bit busy (and stressed) because of school final tests and, you know, all those bad things that one does at school... I hope you can forgive me.
> 
> Here's the fourth chapter, a Chelsie one. The title comes from Latin, it means "No Further". According to mythology it was written on the Pillars of Hercules, which signaled the end of the known world.
> 
> Enjoy our babies having dirty - err, angsty thoughts about each other. I'm sorry we didn't go much further from the first CarsonxHughes chapter but I promise that next chapter will focus on Richobel dinner and on their side things will proceed well :)
> 
> My thanks go to Angie (fantasy-fallacy-tumblingstone on Tumblr) for beta-reading while Ame is in Florida for the rest of the week. You're precious dear, thank you!

**Chapter Four: Non Plus Ultra**

 

 

Charles stared at the sheet of paper. It seemed to glance back at him, challenging him to write something down.

 

He grabbed his pen, the one Lord Grantham had given him for Christmas, the one he used only to write letters, to write to her.

He liked the way its sharp nib wrote, the way the ink flowed down on the sheet and the contrast between the black liquid and the creamy white colour of the paper.

 

He had felt the urge to write to her as soon as they were on the train but he couldn't. What would she think of him?

He surely couldn't act like a lovesick schoolboy, could he?

 

He had never been much of a romantic person. Even in his days on stage, days he preferred to forget (he often lived as if they never existed, but sometimes they just bubbled up the surface of his thoughts) he had always kept his feelings to himself, he had never allowed himself to behave foolishly.

Of course, he had had a few flirts, but he had never declared his love so freely as Grigg used to, especially when very drunk, whenever he bedded a girl.

 

He hadn't been a saint himself, he had to admit, but he had always been reserved, almost shy in showing his feelings openly... even now, that he had been working with her for so long and he knew her quite well, he couldn't bring himself to declare what he felt for her.

 

He had struggled for a long time to keep himself from thinking about her or having strange and preposterous ideas about loving her, he _hadn't_ fallen in love with her, no sir, he hadn't.

Yes, he had. And once he had actually considered this, there was no going back.

 

He thought of her day and night (when he struggled to keep his thoughts as proper as he could and not always succeeded) and he tried very hard not to look a fool when she was around, he tried not to be caught while staring at her with wonder, he tried to make his brushes against her arms appear casual, but he couldn't force himself not to love her.

 

He had thought that he could live without admitting himself that he loved her, but he couldn't. Now he thought that he could live without telling her... and he _had to_. He could bear not having her properly for all his life, he could bear not calling her _his_.

He was disposed to reach this compromise, it was a _non plus ultra_ , a barrier he couldn't cross, a wall he couldn't destroy completely, but he was willing to live like this.

He didn't even dare to call give her a name in his thoughts, to call her Elsie.  

 

Was he a fool? Probably.

Was he a coward? Most certainly.

Was he in love? Definitely.

He hadn't written to her during his journey then and he hadn't had a chance to sit for a moment and grab his pen to write for quite a long time. Two weeks had passed since he last saw her and he still hadn't written a single word due to the amount of work to be done.

 

Not that it was that easy to write to her either. She meant everything to him, she was his favourite colleague, his closest friend, his only... companion, yet he couldn't allow himself to write to her freely, he had to restrain himself or else he would reveal too much in his letters and she would understand.  She was smart, she knew him well, sometimes it was like she knew him better than himself.

He couldn't' risk, he _wouldn't_ risk, he tried to be formal but not too much, friendly without letting anything slip.

He wrote every single word carefully, his letters weren't very spontaneous, but he tried to be as truthful and warm as he could, he tried to write something that could remind her of him, all buttoned up even in his letters.

 

And there he was, in the quiet of his London pantry, scrubbing his chin with the end of his pen and thinking desperately of something to write.

_Dear Mrs Hughes,_

_I apologize for not writing to you earlier but the whole staff was busy with the running of the household and the family's nights out, so I wasn't able to settle down and write until now._

_I hope you're doing well, here in London -_

 

A knock on the door interrupted his writing. "Come in," he called.

 

Mr Bates's head appeared from the doorway, "I'm sorry, Mr Carson. Lord Grantham said they're having dinner early tonight because they're heading to the theatre later."

 

He suppressed a grunt. "Of course. Thank you, Mr Bates, I'll ring the dressing gong in a few minutes."

 

Mr Bates nodded and disappeared in the hallway. He disappointedly dropped his pen and stood up, walking to the door. He turned and glanced briefly at the letter on his desk, with a look of longing on his face.

 

Mrs Hughes would have to wait a bit more for her letter.

 

 

*

 

 

Elsie looked up from her book. She had been reading the same passage over and over for half an hour and was starting to feel annoyed.

 

She closed her book with a loud sigh, turning her head to glance at the alarm clock on her bedside table: it was well past midnight.

With a groan she lifted her sheets and got up, the feeling of the cold floor under her warm feet made her shiver.

She reached for her dressing gown, put it on and exited silently from her room.

 

She tiptoed down the stairs and stopped in the hallway, unsure on what to do. She had work to be done in her parlor but she didn't feel like it, besides it was almost one o'clock, she didn't need to work hard even at night, as if she relaxed herself during the day!

 

Elsie couldn't stop her mind from wondering what he might be doing in London at that moment.  
She smiled, he was surely sleeping soundly, at least he was able to.

 

She couldn't help but figure Charles Carson sleeping, snoring softly, his mouth slightly open, his broad chest rising and falling and that loose curl on his forehead, that she loved so much yet hadn't the chance to see often... she had to admit he made a rather charming picture.

 

She shook her head, imposing herself not to think about him in that way. How improper of her.

Suddenly warmer than she should have been, she decided to take a walk outside.

 

 

*

 

Charles almost collapsed in his chair, letting out a relieved breath. It was almost one o'clock in the morning and he was so tired he might as well fall asleep on his desk.

 

He had had so much work to do he hadn't had a single minute to write his letter and that was the only thing he had in mind for all evening.

Since the Crawleys were out for the night, he had dedicated his time to tasks he couldn't carry out if the family in the house.

He had tried to polish the silver in his pantry (it wasn't as fine as the one at Downton, but still) but he cut his middle finger with a particularly sharp end of one of the trays and started cursing himself under his breath.

 

_"Damn you, old man, you don't even seem to concentrate on your work if you think of her! You're not some foolish stable boy head over heels in love with a silly kitchen maid! Now put yourself together and do some work!"_

So he had decided to check the wine cellar and he had even managed to drop a bottle of red while going through his list, remembering their evenings together while they sipped the leftover wine of upstairs...

He remembered how she always leaned in to talk to him and he could smell the wine in her breath mixed with the light scent of lemon he couldn't quite figure out where it came from (her hair maybe?).

 

He was just about to turn the bottle in his hand in order to check the label when he remembered her while drinking wine, her lips always a shade deeper of red after she sipped the liquid, her tongue almost imperceptibly wiping the corners of her moist mouth... she always did it absent-mindedly and she surely wouldn't do it if she knew what it did to him.

 

While the bottle slipped from his grasp and landed shattering on the stone floor he couldn't help thinking that Elsie Hughes would be the death of him.

 

*

 

Elsie leaned against the cool wall of the bicycle shed, the belt of her gown was loose and her hair cascaded down her shoulder in an untidy braid.

 

Maybe he wasn't sleeping. Maybe he was out with the family, maybe... she felt herself shudder.

No, she had no right to think about it, he hadn't committed himself to her, they had never been more than friends, as it should be... but her mind wandered, wandered miles away from where she was, wandered where _he_ was and she couldn't help thinking he might have a relationship with a woman, another woman that wasn't _her_.

They were friends indeed, but he wasn't obliged to tell her everything about his life... what if he had a woman? What if... he loved her?

She didn't think she would want to know that.

 

Elsie knew perfectly well that he wasn't hers and he never would be.

She knew perfectly well that, even if the wall between them was crumbling down, they could never, _would_ never make that one more step, because there was one last impassable barrier that, however hard they (she) might try would never fall... but that couldn't stop her from imagining what her life might have been with him at her side.

She didn't think about children, it was too late for them (although she would have liked to have a girl, maybe even a boy) but she thought of them as a couple, sometimes even as man and wife, sharing a cottage... and not only a cottage.

 

Sometimes she wondered what he was like under all that clothes. She knew she shouldn't think of him in that way, it wasn't proper at all, but she hadn't much power on her thoughts, not when it came to him.

 

She wondered if he was muscular as she imagined him to be, a little bit softer than he had been in youth maybe, but still fit.

She imagined his broad chest covered with grey hair, his beautiful, strong arms and how it would be to be held by him at night, to have his warm presence next to her, to listen to his soft snores during the night, to muss his grey hair, to kiss his forehead, his brow, his mouth.

She shook her head to free her mind from those thoughts.

 

She could actually see it, the thin wall that was between them and always would be, it glistened in the night, shiny and solid, unbreakable.

 _Non plus ultra_ : it was a warning, yet a challenge to go further.

 

She knew it would never crumble down, she knew she would never be allowed to kiss him, either his brow, his forehead or his lips, she knew she would never call Charles Carson _hers_... but there was no harm in imagining, in dreaming, was it?

 

Elsie felt a sudden chill pervading her to the bone.

If she couldn't destroy that wall she would at least try to ease her pain, as she had always done.

 

She closed her eyes, enjoying the chilly breeze of a spring night, while a voice in her mind whispered: _"Keep your mind away from him and you'll be safe, lass"._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How about leaving a review? Thanks!


	5. Chapter Five: Sweet Unexpected

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally here's your fifth chapter! I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, but school kept getting in the way and, as soon as it finished, I was always out with my friends, enjoying freedom... but today I've been a good girl and I finished this long (hopefully you'll forgive my delay because of this) and absurdly difficult to write chapter. I'm pretty satisfied about it and I'd like to know what you think, so don't hesitate to leave me a review, my darlings :)
> 
> My thanks, as always, but tonight even more, go to Ame (ms-obsessive-compulsive on Tumblr) who has betaread my work even if she works a lot every day. THANK YOU DARL!
> 
> Tomorrow I'm leaving for Greece and I'm staying there till the 28th. I promise you I'll work a lot on this fanfiction because I love my babies and want them to have a happy ending.
> 
> Thank you very much for reading, if you still want to after this excessively long note.

**Chapter Five: Sweet Unexpected**

It was a bright and sunny day but the air was too chilly for her taste.  
Isobel walked down the street, towards Downton Square to buy some fruits and vegetables for her dinner with Doctor Clarkson that evening.

It was one of the first times she'd left her house after Matthews's death. Apart from Sundays, when she went to church, she had never ventured out.  
Since he had started coming round at her house, though, she felt different.  
She was still gloomy, and her mind still drifted to dark places, but he had managed to bring her some small comforts and make her smile from time to time. The fact that she was out shopping was a marked improvement.

The greengrocer greeted her warmly. "Good morning, ma'am! How is it that Mr. Molesley isn't doing the shopping for you?"

"Today is Mr. Molesley's day off," she cut short with the smallest hint of a smile. "Now, I'd like five of those red apples and…"  
She stopped at the sound of a soft Scottish lilt greeting her. "Good morning, Mrs. Crawley."

She turned, surprised at seeing her there. "Good morning to you, Mrs Hughes," she answered. "What a coincidence seeing you here."

The other woman hid a smile. "Mrs. Patmore asked me if I could do the shopping for the servants at the big house since she's on her half day and Daisy is tending to other household chores."

"I see," Isobel responded politely.

"Isn't Mr. Molesley in charge of doing your shopping, Mrs Crawley?"

"He is, but he's visiting his father today, so I'm doing it myself. I'm still capable of it, you know. Besides I've a guest at dinner tonight." She sounded a little more rude than she meant and winced a bit at her words.

A sparkle of curiosity shone in the housekeeper's eyes but she didn't ask any questions, as she was accustomed. Isobel cursed herself and her big mouth, but Mrs. Hughes only smiled at her. Isobel continued her shopping and paid the greengrocer at the end, trying to act as if she hadn't said anything at all.

Even if the housekeeper guessed who was her guest (not that she had many possibilities) she wasn't a gossip, so her secret could be safe with her. Or so Isobel dearly hoped.

Mrs. Hughes finished shortly after her and followed her down the street, carrying several bags.

"How is the family doing in London?" Isobel asked her.

"Quite well, I suppose."

Isobel looked at her, not hiding her surprise. "Hasn't Mr Carson written to you yet? Don't you two usually write to each other during the season as butlers and housekeepers do?"

Mrs Crawley's words angered Elsie. What was "as butlers and housekeepers do" supposed to mean? Were they obliged to write to each other just because of the roles they fulfilled?

Then she remembered Mrs. Crawley's first question and her heart sank. Just when she had successfully managed to put thoughts of Mr. Carson aside for a bit, they come back to haunt her.  
No, he hadn't written to her, not yet. And he never would, she was sure of it.

A thick curtain of silence fell between them. Sensing the other woman's discomfort and seeing her face suddenly sad and her eyes suddenly interested in the cobbled street, Isobel apologized. "I'm sorry for upsetting you, Mrs. Hughes. I didn't mean to sound impertinent and pry."

Though the other woman  _had_  sounded quite nosy, Elsie heard herself say. "No need to worry, Mrs Crawley, really." The woman meant no harm, she was sure of it.

After arriving in front of Crawley House, Isobel turned to her. "Why don't you come round for a visit one of these days? If you'd like of course."

Her request took Elsie aback. She smiled a little, "My half day is next Friday. I'll think about it, thank you."

Isobel nodded, "I hope you'll come, I often find myself growing weary of needlework and book reading. Good company would do me well."  
Elsie walked away waving to her. Mrs. Crawley had been very kind, she thought.  
They had spoken a few times during those nine years and their relationship wasn't perfect (they had always kept their distance, especially Elsie, due to class differences) and they disagreed on many different occasions.

However, Elsie had been moved by Mrs Crawley's invitation. Even if she was going through a particularly difficult moment she had invited her to her house because she had clearly seen something was troubling the housekeeper, and Elsie had to admit she appreciated it.

Maybe they could help each other, although Elsie's problems were less important than Isobel's.  
Thoughts of Charles filled her mind as she walked down to Downton Abbey.  
She shook her head. "Never mind him now, he obviously isn't thinking about you so you shouldn't think of him either," she said aloud to herself.

The sun was already setting when Isobel stirred. She had decided to take a nap that afternoon before getting ready for dinner.  
She yawned and stretched on the sofa, setting her blanket aside and looking at the grandfather clock while rubbing her eyes.

She suddenly jumped up muffling a gasp with her hand. It was half past six already and she hadn't washed her hair yet, nor prepared herself for dinner, nor… a bad smell reached her nose and she let out a terrified squeal, running to the kitchen.

The smell came from the oven, as she feared. She opened it and a black curtain of smoke enveloped her. She coughed several times, shielding herself with her arms and opening the windows as soon as she could.  
"The dinner is ruined!" She cried. Trying to maintain her composure, she ran to the bathroom and prepared a bath.  
After coming out of the bath tub she washed her hair as quickly as she could and started drying it frantically.

If she finished quickly she could come up with something to cook for the Doctor before he arrived… but a knock on the door interrupted her trail of thoughts.  
Suddenly petrified, she looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was damp, shaggy and excessively curly, its ends left several damp marks on her blouse and made her look untidy.

She snorted and tried to tame it quickly with her brush without result. She wrapped her hair in a towel and put a dressing gown over the wrinkled and damp blouse and skirt she had slept in.  
"You have to face it, Isobel. You just go down and tell Richard you should postpone" she spoke to herself. She squared her shoulders and went down to answer the door.

Richard stood nervously before her front door. He raised his fist to knock again but the door suddenly burst open. In front of him stood Isobel, her face flushed, her hair wrapped in a towel and a dressing gown tied tightly around her, her eyes open wide.  
He stared awkwardly at her, at a loss for words.

"Doctor… Richard," she started, "I'm… I'm terribly sorry to welcome you like this. Please come inside."

He crossed the threshold and she hurriedly closed the door, leaning against the wood.  
He could hear her labored breath and see a blush creep up her neck and cheeks. Richard had never seen a woman more beautiful.

"I… I don't…  _oh, damn it_ ," she swore under her breath, giving up all pretense. "The thing is, Richard, I took a nap while the chicken was cooking in the oven, not intending to oversleep… but I did and now the chicken is burnt and I'm still here with damp hair," she finally confessed.  
"I think that if we could postpone our dinner…" she trailed off. She was mortified and disappointed, he noticed.

Then an idea came to his mind, "Why don't you go and dry your hair while I prepare us something to eat? I'm no great cook but sandwiches will do I think."  
Sensing her hesitation, he added: "I don't mind at all, don't worry."

Isobel thought she could wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him senseless. The man was a genius and so thoughtful.

"All right, then, " she agreed. She showed him the kitchen and headed to the bathroom with a strange flutter in her stomach.

After drying her hair in the best way she could she quickly dressed herself with a light blue blouse and a dark skirt, then she pinned her hair, trying unsuccessfully to fight all the ringlets that framed her face in the most annoying way. Finally giving up after a good twenty minutes, she descended the stairs with a sigh.  
The dinner had already been spoiled by her foolishness, surely a perfect attire could do very little to improve the evening.

Entering the kitchen, she saw that Richard had already prepared the table. He was dressed in a dark informal jacket that matched his trousers and a white shirt.

Hearing her footsteps, he turned. "I prepared some sandwiches with cheese and ham and a bowl of salad, since there were fresh vegetables in the cold store. We also have some fruit. I assume Mr. Molesley went to do your shopping today?"

Isobel blushed a little and looked at her hands, annoyed with herself for her sudden bashfulness. "I went myself," she confessed. "Mr Molesley was on his day off - so I thought a walk would do me good."

He smiled. "I'm glad you went out to enjoy the fresh air. You should do it more often."

She looked suddenly up at him. "I know and I'll try to. I… I went out today thanks to you."

"Me?"

"Yes, you. I wanted to do some shopping for tonight's dinner, to make it special. But I burnt the chicken and now…"

He reached her in two strides and gently put his hands on her arms. "I don't mind how this evening has turned out. Really. In fact, I think it's a welcome change from fancy dinners. And if we are to be friends, you shouldn't mind it at all."

She still wasn't convinced. "But I wanted to prepare something good, it's been a long time since I've done anything for myself…"

"Isobel." He interrupted her. She looked sharply at him. His light-blue eyes were calm and patient. She resisted the urge to wrap her arms around his shoulders and bury her face in his neck.

"I'm sure you'll come up with something delicious next time we dine together. Now, why don't we have a bite of these wonderful sandwiches?" He moved from her and she had to suppress a whimper of disappointment.

Dinner was a quiet affair. They ate in silence, sharing satisfied looks from time to time. She didn't know if it was because she was quite hungry, but she liked Richard's cooking very much.

Wiping her mouth with a napkin she commented, "It was all quite tasty, Richard."

"I'm glad you liked it."

She stood up, "Why don't we move to my drawing room? We could share a glass or two of brandy."

"Of course," he said, following her down the hallway, trying not to stare at her swaying form.

After she had settled on the settee, he opened a brand new bottle of brandy and poured it into two different glasses.

"Can I join you?", he asked rather boldly, nodding towards the sofa.

"Certainly," she replied with a small smile.

As soon as he sat, her scent enveloped him. She smelled of soap and… was it lavender?  
He could see soft ringlets that had escaped her pins curling at the base of her pale neck. He wanted very much to touch it, kiss it.

" _Don't stare at her now, Richard. It's rude._ " He thought to himself, purposefully turning his gaze to the book case a few feet away.

He tried hard not to swallow when she took a sip from her glass, and stared off, her mind probably miles away.

" _Tell her she's beautiful._ " A smile voice in his head nagged.

"You…", he started.

"I wanted to…", she began at the same time.

They looked at each other, startled, then laughed nervously.

"Say what you wanted to say," she incited him.

"Oh, no, you first, please."

Isobel cleared her throat, "What I meant before was that… I wanted tonight to be perfect to thank you for all you've done. If it wasn't for you, I don't know how I would have survived through all these months without my Matthew."

"You don't have to thank me, Isobel. I did what I did gladly, because I care for you," he said quietly, with feeling.

She took his hands in hers and he gazed into her eyes. She had wonderful eyes, a deep and warm shade of brown with spots of hazel. He had lost track of what she was saying, listening intead to the soft tone of her voice. He thought that her lips might have murmured a 'thank you' but he wasn't sure. He was besotted.

Shaking his head slightly to wake from his reverie he saw Isobel glance at the grandfather clock.  
"Oh."

"What?" he asked, a bit ungentlemanly.

"It's eleven o'clock already," she noticed, biting her lip.

" _Don't stare at her lips, Richard._ " He reminded myself.

"I think I should go then," he spoke aloud, unable to hide the disappointment in his voice.

She nodded silently, standing up to show him to the door. The evening had already ended and all she wanted to do was caress his face, or muss his hair, or… kiss him.

" _Don't think about that now Isobel, it's very unladylike_ ," she sighed to herself through gritted teeth as they headed for the door.

She put on a smile, trying to conceal her feelings, and turned to him, watching him put on his coat.

After he fastened all the buttons, they stayed in the hall for a while, in awkward silence.  
"Well then. Thank you for this lovely evening, Isobel," he finally spoke.

She nodded and smiled. "Thank you for the dinner, Richard."

"Oh, just some sandwiches and a salad, you can have them anytime you wish," his eyes twinkled as he smiled.

 _Don't stare at his lips, don't stare at his lips…_  
  
She opened the door and he stepped out, bowing slightly. "Good night, Isobel."

"Good night, Richard."

She watched him walking away with a knot in her stomach and a strange sense of longing and loneliness.

"Richard!" His name burst out from her lips before she could even think.

He turned back around. "Yes?"

Isobel descended quickly the steps and started running towards him. "You forgot something!"

_Oh, for God's sake, what are you doing now?_

He touched his head, but his hat was there. "What did I forget?" he asked, after a breathless Isobel reached him. His eyes looked deep blue, almost black in the lack of light, but she was sure she saw a twinkle of tenderness and…hope? Or was it just her hope?

She straightened her back and looked bashfully at him.

 _Now you lost all you courage together with your wits?_  
  
She reached out for him and caressed his cheek. His eyes widened a little, but he didn't refuse her touch, instead he put his hand on hers.

"What did I forget?" he repeated softly, his Scottish accent suddenly growing very thick.

"This," she said, before leaning towards him. He must have had the same thought, for he tilted his head and met her lips halfway.

It was a light kiss, her lips merely brushing tenderly against his own, and when they separated, she let out a small sigh.

He brought her hand to his lips, and she felt a slight tingle as his whiskers grazed her skin.  
"Good night, my darling Isobel."

She watched him leaving and, after he turned the corner, she couldn't help but turn around a small gleeful laugh escaped her, the first in months, and her skirt whirled behind her as she skipped like a schoolgirl back towards the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How about leaving a review and making happy a little girl here in Italy? (me)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there people! I've written a lot of chapters during my holiday and here's the next one. It's all from Charles' POV and a mirror of the second part of the fourth one in Elsie's POV.
> 
> I found it a bit difficult to write Charles' thoughts and I hope I respected the character and I didn't go OOC. Tell me what you think of it, please :)
> 
> This chapter is a bit shorter than the last one (which was veery long). If I can, next chapter will be on its way soon, tonight or tomorrow morning, since I'm leaving again for a work camp for ten days.
> 
> I'm a bit busy this holidays sorry! ^^'
> 
> Enjoy (?)

**Chapter Six: Cowardice**

  
  
Charles folded the paper carefully, put in into an envelope, and wrote down the address in tiny, elegant handwriting. A butler’s handwriting.  
He assured himself the envelope was closed before hunching his back and laying back in his chair, sighing.  
  
Two weeks had passed since he left Downton and he had completed his first letter for her now, God knew where he would find the time to send it.   
He had never been so busy as he was in those weeks. The family was out almost every night and, most of the time, he had to attend.  
When they stayed home they never dined alone, but two or three guests that required his complete attention were always present.  
He often found himself doing double the work, but Lady Mary seemed better and that made it worth it.  
  
He couldn’t help but wonder how Elsie was doing.  
He wondered if she thought of him… or if she waited anxiously for his letter. He couldn’t wait to post the one he had just written. It had taken an entire week to finish it, but he probably would have to wait another two weeks to see it on its way, since he hadn’t been allowed a half day off yet.  
  
He usually wrote to her two or three days after his arrival in London and her reply arrived within five or six days. Normally, they wrote to each other as often as they could. They spoke of Downton, of their colleagues (while he tried to avoid gossip, he didn’t always succeed) and of the household chores.   
She sometimes dedicated two or three lines to her sister and he dedicated a few to the Crawleys or to grumble about the other housekeeper… the one that wasn’t her.   
  
He rubbed his eyes and glanced at his pocket watch. It was twenty past one in the morning. In the last few days he had always gone to bed as soon as the family retired for sleeping. He’d been so tired he couldn’t even grab a pen and write down a few lines.  
  
But tonight , even if he was so tired he had to stop writing from time to time to avoid blotching the paper, he dedicated an hour of his well deserved rest to her, because she deserved it.  
He stood up, put the letter into a pocket of his waist coat and turned off the light before exiting his pantry and retiring silently up the steps.  
  
His mind was wandering miles away, to Downton Abbey. He wondered if she was sleeping. Of course she was, surely she wasn’t troubled by thoughts of him as he was of her.   
  
Charles pictured her sleeping, her head resting on the pillow, the hair escaping from her tidy plait and curling around her face, her lips slightly parted, her chest rising and falling slowly,  _oh so slowly_ … he shook his head. He shouldn’t think of her that way, he had no right.  
  
He entered his room and sat on the bed, passing a hand over his face.  
He had no right, but still…  
He sat up suddenly. No, that wasn’t proper.  
  
He busied himself changing for the night but, after changing into his pajamas and tucking himself into bed, thoughts of Elsie returned to haunt him during the night.  
  
His bed was slightly larger than the one he had in Downton, two people could occupy it if they slept close enough together… he wondered how it would be to have her next to him, in his arms.  
  
She had asked him once if he would have liked to have a different life, a wife, some children perhaps and she had taken him aback. It had been years before and yet… he was still not ready to reply.  
  
Ten years before he had been struggling to understand whether he loved her or not. After no more than a year he resolved that he didn’t love her, despite the unbidden jealousy he felt when she’d briefly walked out with Joe Burns again.  
  
It took him another two years to doubt his decision. Was it only friendship he sought from Elsie?  
No sir, he didn’t love her.  
  
But a year ago it had hit him so suddenly. He loved her, gods be damned,  _he loved her_.  
He loved her smile, her hair, her accent, her sweet face… and any attempts to repress his feelings only made it worse. But he couldn’t let his feelings be shown, so he treated her in the same way he had always done. And when he found himself in close proximity with her, he raised his unbreakable wall to shield himself.  
He couldn’t let her in, he couldn’t run the risk of it breaking… he tried to tell himself that he didn’t need any sort of romantic entanglements, thank you very much.  
  
Still, it was very hard not to think of her... especially once he had admitted to himself he loved her.  
She was always in his thoughts and when he didn’t think of her, she would find a way into his mind anyway.  
It was the most frustrating thing ever, being side by side with Elsie every day and not being able to caress her cheek or squeeze her shoulder. Or kiss her….  
  
He groaned and turned on his side.  
He wondered how her figure would appear in the dim light of his bedroom. He wondered how it would feel to embrace her from behind, feel the curve of her bottom against his groin, drape an arm on her belly, just under her bosom, tangle his legs with hers, feel her tiny feet next to his, breathe in her scent, put his nose in her hair, kiss her shoulder… the mere thought was maddening for him.  
  
He sighed again. Only Elsie had ever made him feel that way. She was a strong and independent woman and yet he feared she might break under his touch, for he knew she was more delicate and fragile than she made others believe behind her steel façade.

  
They both hid behind masks. Charles pretended to be the perfect of Downton Abbey, so much dedicated to his work that the family’s interests were his.  
Elsie pretended to be the stern and ill-tempered housekeeper, the Scottish Dragon, a spinster, a shrew, a machine that worked and worked but rarely felt anything.  
  
He wondered sometimes how things would have been different if he had married her, if she had had his children. He would have liked two girls and a boy with bright blue eyes and curly hair.  
  
He turned on his back again, staring at the ceiling but it was Elsie’s face he continued to see in his mind.   
He felt angry with himself for behaving like a fool whenever she was around or not. When he was in the same room as her, his eyes were drawn to her like magnets.   
He did his best to conceal it and no one seemed to have noticed yet (especially not her, thank God).  
  
When she was far away from him, his thoughts drifted to her more often than he’d like. Not that he had any power on his mind when it came to her.  
  
Every year in his London bed he promised himself he was going to say to her he loved her once he returned home. But he had never done it.   
She was there, in front of him, yet still out of his reach.  
  
Every year he promised himself he would find the courage to ask her to walk out with him, but he had never done it.  
  
“What will others think?" he thought. “The butler and the housekeeper of Downton, how improper!"  
  
But a voice inside him screamed not to care. It screamed to take her hand, lead her to him, wrap his arms around her and kiss her softly… but he couldn’t, he wouldn’t.  
  
Despite the warm temperature in the room, Charles felt a sudden chill to the bone.

And in his cold and lonely bed, he felt more coward than he had ever been. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a review, please?


	7. Chapter Seven: Flowers and Letters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so proud of myself, I've succeded in typing this chapter last night so I could post this morning before leaving. A very huge thanks to Ame, my beta, who's always so patient with me and despite her work always finds the time to check my work. Another thanks to all of you, those who have reviewed and are always so kind with me and those who continue to read this even if the chapters are often delayed. Thank you, really.
> 
> I hope I won't dissapoint you with this one.

**Chapter Seven: Flowers and Letters**

Isobel woke when the sun had already set high in the sky. Judging from the light that filtered in from the window, it must have been ten o'clock.  
She couldn't recall a night better spent than the last one. Everything should have been spoiled when she overslept her nap, instead it turned out the right way thanks to him.

She didn't know where all her forwardness had come from but in the end she had worked up the courage to kiss him.  
Their lips had met halfway. That was the sweetest thing about it, for he must have been thinking of kissing her too.  
Their brief contact had woken again the butterflies in her stomach and had left her longing for more.

She hadn't found the boldness to kiss him again, so she had watched him walking away, with an irrepressible joy in her heart and laughter on her lips.

She had dreamt of him that night; she had not slept so peacefully in months.  
She smiled, remembering his whiskers grazing her hand and wondering how it would be if they were to graze other parts of her. Goosebumps rose on her flesh and she snuggled further under the blankets.

When she decided to have breakfast she put on the dressing gown she had used to greet him the night before and went downstairs.

Molesley greeted her and bid her good morning. She replied cheerfully and busied herself preparing breakfast.

"Let me do that, ma'am," he offered.

"No need to worry, Molesley. I have to prove to myself I'm still capable of preparing my own breakfast, " she chuckled.

He looked at her at loss for words. "Well then," he stammered. "As you wish, ma'am." He made to exit, then stopped on the threshold.

"What is it?" she asked, turning to face him with a smile.  
"I remembered only now, Mrs Crawley. Someone has left a bunch of flowers on the doorstep."

*

The postman was late. Elsie was waiting for him by the back door, pacing back and forth.

She was sure Charles' letter was arriving that day.  
She could feel the paper in her hand, his handwriting impressed on it, the scent of ink and paper mixed together, she could feel her heart beating while she read it… she felt like a silly schoolgirl.

In that moment she saw the postman appear at the end of the road, approaching Downton Abbey on his bike. When he arrived and dismounted from the bike, she greeted him. "Good morning, Mr Johnson. You're late today."

"Good morning, Mrs Hughes. I'm sorry but I had a lot of letters to deliver this morning."

She nodded, wondering if there was also a letter for her in the ones he had in hand."Here are yours," he added. "Have a nice day."

"You too, Mr Johnson."

As soon as he was out of sight, she started searching for Charles' letter… but none of the letters were addressed to her.  
She sighed and made her way inside.

Beryl Patmore's head appeared from the kitchen door and she leaned on the doorframe, crossing her arms. "Well, what's all this fuss about?" she asked, alluding at Elsie's strange behaviour.

"Nothing," she replied, her Scottish accent suddenly very thick. "Here's a letter for you, it's from your sister I think."

" _And none for me, again_ ," she thought, despairing.

Isobel stood in front of Doctor Clarkson's office at the hospital.  
She looked around her but no one was in the corridor. She breathed in deeply and raised her fist to knock but hesitated.

" _Come on you! You weren't so shy last night!_ " she thought.  
She sighed, rolled her eyes and knocked.

"Come in," his voice answered from inside.

She pushed the door and padded in timidly. "Good morning, Doctor."

He lifted his head from the paper work. He seemed very surprised to see her there. "Good morning, Mrs Crawley. What brings you here?"

She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, for fear her legs would fail her.

"I came here to thank you," she spoke sottovoce. "For yesterday evening and… for the flowers," she added with a small smile.

"Flowers?" he asked, trying to sound unaware.

Isobel saw the smile beneath his moustache and tried to play his game. "Well, I found a bunch of flowers on my doorstep this morning. It was very beautiful, although I don't know the name of the sender, so…"

"So?"

"I thought it might be you."

He feigned surprise. "Me? And what makes you think so, pray?" He stood up and approached her.

"He likes making fun of me," she thought, amused.

"Uhm, I don't know exactly, but since someone kissed me last night… someone that had fair hair, blue eyes and a soft Scottish lilt coming from underneath his whiskers."

"Oh, did he? I'm a little jealous."

She had to bite back a smile. His nearness was overwhelming.

"Are you?" she inquired, arching an eyebrow.

"I am. Very much," he replied, gazing at her with his stunning blue eyes.

She swallowed. "And why should you be jealous,  _pray_?"

"Because he's very lucky to have kissed you," he answered softly, looking at her intently.

In a heartbeat their bodies crushed together. He put his arms around her and she clung to his neck as their lips came in contact. His mouth was warm and his whiskers tingled her under the nose but she didn't mind at all.

He moved one hand to cradle her head, his fingers tangled with the hair at the base of her neck and her lips parted slowly to invite him in.

After they broke apart, he rested his forehead on hers, her ragged breath mingling with his.

"I'm sorry," he spoke. "That was a bit ungentlemanly. Please forgive me."

She chuckled. "Why, you're forgiven. Not that I've been much of a lady either."

"Well, I didn't mind your unladylike behaviour," he answered mischievously, though his tone was one of honesty.

"As I don't mind your ungentlemanly behaviour now," she responded.

He kissed the tip of her nose, "You came only to thank me for the flowers then?"

"If not, what was I supposed to do here?"

"Might be you had a second purpose?" he asked, a light of mischief shining in his eyes.

"Might be  _you_  had a second purpose, Richard Clarkson, by sending me those flowers!"

He laughed, "Then I must say:  _mission accomplished_."

She swatted her arm lightly as he took her in his arms again and kissed her softly on the lips.

"Are you coming round one of these days?"

"Of course. I always come round in the mornings, you know."

"Yes, but I meant for you to stay at lunch or dinner? I promise you a proper one this time," she giggled a bit as memories of the night before flashed through her mind again.

"Oh, that would be my pleasure. How about on Friday again? Let's say at lunchtime."

She nodded.

"Now, off with you. I've had enough distractions this morning."

She left him with a long lingering kiss that almost left him begging for more.  
That woman would soon drove him mad, more than she had already done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, the moment for Chelsie will arrive. But it's in my intentions to make them suffer a bit (don't hate me Chelsie shippers, you'll be happy by the end, I promise).
> 
> In the meanwhile, how about leaving a review to make my day?


	8. Chapter Eight: A Ladies' Chat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello my faithful readers! Here I am with a new chapter of this story (which I hope you're enjoying). Thank you so much for your reviews, they always make my day! And thanks to my super betareader Ame, without whom I wouldn't be here :)
> 
> I've moved to my house in the mountains and since the town is very small and there isn't much to do apart from studying (I've started today and I really have too much to do *cries in despair*) and visiting the same places two times a day... so I brought my PC with me (I even have an Internet USB, I use my SIM card for the connection, so I hope it will last long...) and a lot of ideas to write down!
> 
> Now I think I'll end this unnecessary long premise. Here's your chapter!
> 
> Enjoy ;)

**Chapter Eight: A Ladies’ Chat**

 

  
  
“Where are you going?” Isobel asked as Richard stood up from the settee and made his way out of the drawing room.  
  
His head popped out from the doorway. “Someone has to take care of those dishes, it’s half past three already.”  
  
She chuckled. “Molesley is in charge of washing the dishes here, you don’t have to worry.”  
  
“Sorry, I do it out of habit. I don’t have a servant willing to do it for me,” he teased.  
  
“Well, if you care so much for the well-being of the dishes I suppose I could help you," she returned.  
  
“Ooh, could you?” he teased back.  
  
“Of course, Doctor. I’ve got years and years of experience as a dish washer. I had my own house and kitchen, you know, back when Matthew was a little boy…”  
She stopped abruptly, realizing what she was saying. A dark cloud suddenly overshadowed the amused light in her eyes and she suddenly found herself choking back a sob.  
  
He was near her so suddenly she barely acknowledged his presence. Seeing her so tense and upset, he opened his arms and welcomed her gently in them. Isobel put her head on his shoulder and started breathing heavily as he stroked her back murmuring soothing nonsense words.  
  
She tightened her grip on him and he let her be for awhile, despite the warm dampness on his right shoulder. Then she loosened her grip and titled her head to look at him with her brown eyes glistening with tears.   
  
“I… I’m sorry Richard, I don’t know what came over me.”  
  
“I do,” he replied. “And it’s perfectly normal.”  
He caressed her cheek. “I’ll be here every time you need me, do you understand?”  
  
She smiled softly, moved by his words. “Will you?”  
  
He nodded wordlessly and sealed his promise with a light kiss.  
“Now, why don’t we deal with those dishes?”  
  
She followed him in the kitchen and laughed when he put on an apron.  
  
“What? He asked, amused by her reaction. “Never seen a man wearing an apron? I don’t want my clothes to get dirty! _You_ should be wearing an apron too!”  
  
He provided her with another one and helped her put it on, fastening it on her back and lingering more than necessary.   
  
Isobel busied herself filling the sink with water and, when she turned, she noticed he had rolled the sleeves of his white shirt up to his elbows. She had to keep her eyes on the dishes to avoid getting distracted by his strong and gentle arms.  
  
They worked perfectly together, as they had done at the hospital. They established a rhythm, he washed, she dried, and they finished the dishes much quicker than they thought they would.  
  
“Thank you for your help,” she said, after wiping her hands. She removed her apron and kissed him on the cheek. “Molesley will be glad we have already washed the dishes when he returns from the market. Why don’t we…”  
  
A knock on the door interrupted her.   
“What time is it?” she asked.  
  
He glanced at his pocket watch. “Ten past four.”  
  
“Heavens! I forgot Mrs. Hughes was coming for tea today! She wrote to me two days ago saying she would come.”  
  
“Well then, go and answer the door, I’ll be on my way.”  
  
She pouted. “But I don’t want you to go.”  
  
“We have spent lunchtime together, dear, besides I’ve to do my rounds at the hospital.”  
He kissed her thoroughly before she had the chance to open the door.   
  
“Thank you for today,” she whispered to him in goodbye, opening the door.  
  
“Good afternoon, Mrs Hughes! Please, do come in,” she invited the other woman.  
  
“Good afternoon, Mrs Crawley…and Doctor Clarkson,” she added, after noting Richard’s presence.   
  
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Hughes, I was just about to leave,” he reassured her, noticing her puzzled look.   
  
Elsie continued to stare at Richard strangely. Isobel looked at Richard, trying to understand the now tense atmosphere.  
“ _Oh_.”  
  
Richard turned to look at her.  
  
“Richard, your… my apron,” she said as calmly as possible, trying to contain the mirth that already shone in the housekeeper’s eyes.  
  
He tilted his head down to look at himself and started fumbling to take it off as soon as he realized he was still wearing it. His cheeks tinged faintly pink as he tried unsuccessfully to rid himself of it.  
  
“Let me help you,” she said.  
  
He let her untie the knot and thanked her under his breath, then put his hat on and left, after bowing slightly to the two women. Elsie was trying to bite back a smile.  
  
“Thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Crawley, you’ve been very kind,” Elsie spoke as soon as they were alone.   
  
“The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Hughes. I was looking for some female company and I’m glad you took up my offer. Why don’t we move to my drawing room?”  
  
The housekeeper nodded and followed her.  
  
“You have to forgive us,” started Isobel as they settled down on the sofa. “Rich… Doctor Clarkson was helping me wash the dishes…he just forgot to take off the apron.” She had tried to speak of him as “Doctor” but his birth name had sprang from her lips. She was pretty certain it wasn’t the first time she addressed him as “Richard” in the housekeeper’s presence. Had she said it when she asked him to take off his apron? If Elsie Hughes had come to conclusions about the nature of their relationship, she didn’t let them show. The woman was nothing if not discreet.  
  
“Our Doctor is multitasker then!” Mrs. Hughes giggled and they both finally released the mirth they’d been holding in before.  
  
“I’m glad you found a friend that helps you…not only wash the dishes. If you permit me to say so.”  
  
There it was. Of course she had jumped to conclusions, Mrs Hughes was a woman ready of mind. There wasn’t reason to pretend anymore. “It’s nice of you to say that, thank you,” replied Isobel.  
It was nice indeed to have someone who encouraged her in her relationship with Richard.   
  
It was a newborn thing, the one they had between each other, and it needed to be cherished, nourished and encouraged to grow stronger every day that passed, just as a good gardener was like to do with a new rosebush. Yes, that was exactly what they had, what they shared. A newborn rosebud which had blossomed timidly, with time. Their relationship held the promise of growing into a strong and beautiful flower, whose scent could envelop all the other flowers nearby.   
And as she stood there with Mrs. Hughes, she realized how much she wanted to make their little blossom grow and she was glad she had Mrs. Hughes’ support as her and Richard forged this path together.  
  
“How are things proceed at Downton?” she asked while settling more comfortably on the settee.  
  
“As usual, Mrs. Crawley. A lot of the staff remained home and we manage well enough. It has been rather tiring, however.”  
  
“I’m sure the house is in good hands,” Isobel gave her friend a reassuring smile.  
  
Mrs. Hughes smiled slightly but Isobel noticed how she proudly straightened her back. “We do our best.”  
  
Isobel nodded. “Any news from London?”   
As soon as the words left her mouth she regretted them. Before she could apologize though, Mrs Hughes replied. “Nothing still,” she said, almost sighing.   
  
Mrs. Crawley could not help her curiosity. “Forgive me for asking but… has he not written to you?”  
  
In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought to herself. Maybe she shouldn’t have said anything at all, she seemed wounded by his delay…  
  
She wasn’t sure if she had seen a flash of anger in the housekeeper’s eyes, because it was quickly replaced by a sad expression. It was as if she wasn’t trying to hide it anymore.  
“No,” she admitted. “No, he hasn’t.”  
  
Isobel had never heard the other woman sound so miserable. It was plain she had tried to hide her distress from others, but she seemed tired of that now, or maybe she just wanted to give vent to her feelings.  
  
“Don’t lose your hope now. You see, I’ve received a letter from Cousin Cora and she said they’ve been extraordinarily busy with all the parties. I’m sure Carson is drowning in work since the staff in London is so much smaller.”  
  
Elsie barely seemed to hear her. “You received a letter from Lady Grantham? How is… the family?”   
She corrected herself before making a wrong move, but she knew she had already revealed her cards. Would it be worth it to try and hide her feelings from Isobel Crawley? They had shared their differences, sure, but she knew they were both more alike than they realized.   
  
“The family _and_ the servants are well. Lady Mary seems to have improved and little George is growing up more beautifully day by day. They’ll return on the twentieth of May.”  
  
Mrs. Hughes bit her lip and looked in her lap, ashamed that she had revealed that she cared for the butler more than a colleague should. Isobel didn’t know for how long the housekeeper had nourished her feelings for Mr. Carson, but she knew it had to have been for a very long time. It was about time she let her shield fall in front of somebody. She knew how bad it was to never be able to speak about your feelings with someone you could put your trust in. And she was glad Mrs. Hughes was opening her heart a little bit.  
  
“I’m sure he has already written a letter for you,” Isobel pointed out after a moment of silence. “Maybe he has just sent it and it’s on its way.”  
  
The housekeeper looked up at her sharply, her mouth gaping. “I… Mrs Crawley, I…”  
  
Isobel put her hands on the other woman’s. “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”  
  
A strange light shone in Elsie Hughes’ eyes, maybe she judged her sentence too much impertinent, maybe she wasn’t still trusting her completely, but she didn’t let it show. She replied with a simple “thank you”.  
  
Afterwards, they spent the afternoon talking quite pleasantly in front of a cup of tea and a few biscuits. When she was about to leave, Isobel felt the need to speak again. “I’m sure he cares for you in the same way you care for him, you know." When Mrs. Hughes didn’t interrupt, she continued. “Perhaps he’s a little bit shy and unsure of your feelings or worried about propriety…this is Mr. Carson, after all.”   
  
She smiled and put her hand again on Mrs Hughes’. “I’m glad you came, really. Please come again whenever you feel like it, I’d love that.”  
  
The housekeeper nodded. “Thank you for the pleasant afternoon, Mrs. Crawley.”   
  
“Please call me Isobel.” She felt the need to use her birth names with the other woman. After all they had shared that afternoon, unspoken or not, calling each other Elsie and Isobel would be a way to seal their new relationship. Isobel didn’t dare call it friendship, not yet.  
  
“I’d like that, ma’am, but I can’t.”  
  
“Oh, please, please, I insist,” Isobel replied stubbornly.   
  
Mrs Hughes smiled. “Then you should call me Elsie.”  
  
“Perfect. Goodbye then, Elsie. Have a nice evening.”  
  
“You too, Isobel. And give my regards to the Doctor.”  
  
Isobel blushed a little and Elsie beamed. As she watched Elsie make her way to Downton, she couldn’t help but think she had added another little rosebud to her garden.   
  
They couldn’t be more different, yet they had a lot of things in common. Being in love was one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I haven't disappointed you with this chapter. In the next one our hero (you all know who he is) will return from London...
> 
> How about leaving a review in the meantime?


	9. Chapter Nine: Return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, dear ones! Thank you so very much for your support, I wish you could be all here to hug!
> 
> Here you go with another chapter, don't kill me please ;)
> 
> My thanks, as always, go to Ame.

 

 **Chapter Nine: Return**  
  
  
Charles laid his head on the window glass, staring outside as the train travelled fast across the countryside.  
In less than two hours he would be at Downton. He sighed and instinctively put a hand on his chest, near his waistcoat pocket, where he kept the letters meant for Elsie.   
  
He hadn’t had the time to send them in those two months. Or at least…that was what he told himself.   
He had been very busy indeed, busier than he had ever been, but it was not as if Lord Grantham had denied him his few well deserved half days off. He had continued to work though, restlessly.

  
She must be angry with me, he thought. And she would bloody well have her reasons.  
  
When he was away for the Season they  _always_  wrote to each other, and at the start of July he always returned home with about ten letters from Elsie, which he always kept jealously in a little box.  
  
He didn’t know how to face her once he returned home. He wasn’t even sure she’d be angry with him. What if she gave him the cold shoulder? Or smacked him? Or, worst of all, didn’t care a bit?  
The woman was a mystery to him, yet she always seemed to understand even his deepest thoughts.  
So why hadn’t she realized he was in love with her?  
  
The group of letters on his heart weighed more than it should have, heavy with words unspoken and unwritten.  
He wondered why he persisted in being such a craven. All he needed was to speak up, or take her hand, or caress her hair, or… kiss her.  
The mere thought made him weak in the knees.  
  
She is a beautiful force of nature, he thought, small but fierce. Oh, what fierceness she had!   
It shone in those deep blue eyes of hers, whenever she quarrelled with him.   
  
He was glad of their newfound bond after her cancer scare, but he was still reluctant to let things go further. He would hate to ruin their friendship by kissing her.  
  
As Charles Carson was travelling home, he realized that even his firm conviction of living without making her his was wrong. It couldn’t be more wrong, for he knew that all the wanted to do as soon as he saw her that afternoon was to take her in his arms and kiss her squarely on the lips… but he would never do such a thing. Would he lose her because of his foolishness?  
He’d lose her because he was a coward who denied them both the chance to reveal their true feelings.  
  
*

  
“The car has just arrived,” Mrs. Patmore entered from the yard outside.  
  
“I’m coming,” mumbled Elsie before following her out half-heartedly.

  
She emerged in the yard just as the chauffeur was turning off the engine. She shielded herself from the sun with a hand and waited patiently for the servants to exit the car.  
  
She wondered what he would do when he saw her. Would he be ashamed? Worried? Would he care at all?  
With a silent sigh she prepared to face him.   
  
He got out of the car first and held the door open for the others: Mr. Bates, Anna, Thomas and Lady Grantham’s new maid got out of the car in quick succession.   
  
“Good afternoon, all!” Anna cheerfully greeted the other staff.  
  
“Welcome back,” responded Elsie with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.  
  
Anna responded to the smile gratefully with her own, and soon the silence grew into a quiet chatter as the servants proceeded to enter the house, leaving Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes behind.   
  
Beryl Patmore stole a worried glance in their direction but decided not to interfere; she followed the others inside, shaking her head slightly.  
  
“It’s nice to be back,” said Charles, after an awkward moment of silence.  
  
Mrs Hughes didn’t reply, suddenly finding her shoes very interesting.  
He cleared his throat once and then twice, a few minutes later. Elsie Hughes still hadn’t spoken a word.  
  
“Mrs Hughes, I…”  
  
Her head snapped up at his change in tone and she stared at him, motionless, waiting for him to continue.  
  
He cleared his throat again, desperately searching for the courage he simply didn’t have.  
“Is everything all right?” he heard himself ask and almost immediately regretted having spoken at all.  
  
She glared at him with a stern piercing stare she usually reserved for her maids and he was surprised (if not a little relieved) not to see smoke coming from her nostrils.  
  
A strange light shone in her light blue eyes, a light of anger, suddenly replaced by a cloud of cold politeness.  
“Of course, Mr Carson. Why wouldn’t it be all right?” she returned and he could identify a slight note of mockery in her tone.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he blurted out. He must have looked surprised at his outburst, for a glimpse of surprise appeared on her face as well, only to disappear just as quickly.  
  
“I’m sorry for…” he tried again.  
  
“Why, Mr Carson,” she interrupted him. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”  
  
He couldn’t help but smile and a strange feeling of euphoria gripped him tightly.  
So she wasn’t mad at him for not writing? They would continue to be Elsie Hughes and Charles Carson, housekeeper and butler of Downton Abbey, colleagues and friends?  
  
“Because I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” she added coolly, before leaving him outside, alone, utterly speechless, and very confused.  
  
*  
  
“Well, that served him right,” commented Beryl Patmore that same evening.   
  
Charles hadn’t presented in her parlour, choosing instead to go to bed.  
Or maybe that was his plan B, since he had entered her office to bid her goodnight and had hesitated on the threshold just a few seconds. She knew him well; he was trying to give her time to call him back.  
But she hadn’t, oh no, she hadn’t. So he had had no choice but to go to sleep.   
He surely would sleep better than her that night, as he had always done. He simply didn’t care for her the way she did.  
  
Elsie didn’t reply but continued to stir the tea in her cup absent-mindedly.  
  
“What do you intend to do now?” asked the cook.  
  
She looked at her friend, uncertain on what to say. “Why, should I do something?”  
  
“Of course you should! You could ask him why he didn’t write to you, for example.”  
  
Oh, yes, Elsie thought. Then why don’t I ask him how many times a day he uses the toilet?  
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” she answered instead.  
  
“Come on, Elsie! You said he was trying to explain himself, you should have given him time to do that…”  
  
“He was trying to come up with some sort of decent explanation, thank you very much! And I won’t believe him if he comes saying he hasn’t had time to write me a letter. Lord Grantham has never denied a simple half day to his employees, not when they’re here, nor when they’re in London! If he wanted to write to me, if he cared about it, he would have found the time, half day off or not, but he didn’t.”  
  
She sighed. “Oh, but who am I to judge him? I’m not his mother, nor his sister, nor his…”  
She stopped abruptly, swallowing quickly and fighting hard not to blush.   
  
 _Nor his wife. She was not his wife._  
  
Beryl looked at her sadly and curved her lips in sympathy as she frowned in apprehension.   
  
“He obviously doesn’t care about me as I thought he would. I’m just a colleague, the housekeeper”.  
She was almost glad she was seeing it right now.

  
“I’m not even a friend," she added, “for he would have written to a friend. I’m just the old housekeeper of Downton Abbey,” she concluded, sipping her tea that suddenly tasted cold and bitter.  
  
*  
In his bed in Downton, Charles turned for the tenth time in five minutes. He passed a hand through his hair and sighed heavily.  
  
He had made a mess of it, he had ruined it. All they had, all they shared had gone to ashes.  
He honestly didn’t know what had come over him, what had prevented him from sending those letters to her.   
He felt a strange feeling in his gut, like a mailed hand was twisting his insides with force.  
His head kept screaming he was a coward and he knew, more than ever, that he was.  
  
He hadn’t realized how much he needed Elsie in his life until a few years before and now that he had the chance to deepen the relationship with her, he was wasting it away.  
  
Maybe if he showed her the letters he had written… but what good would that bring?  
  
“Look, Elsie, these are for you. There are five of them, see? I often thought of you in these months and I wrote quite a few letters for you but I’ve never had the courage to send them,” he mumbled hesitantly.  
  
Yeah, perfect, she would fall at his feet.  
  
He turned again with a frustrated groan.  
She would probably think he had written them out of pity tonight.   
No, that would never do, he thought.  
  
He had to find a way to deal with the problem, he knew.   
And in the darkness of his room, Charles Carson prepared himself to face what was yet to come. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How about leaving a review to express your pain? ;P


	10. Chapter Ten: It's Complicated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there, darling ones! How are your holidays going? I hope well.
> 
> Here everything is dreadfully dead and silent, I enjoyed myself last week because a friend of mine stayed for a week in my little house, but now she's gone and boredom found me again!
> 
> Anyway, I hope I can work properly on this fanfiction, since I have a lot of free time, homework excluded :P
> 
> The title is a little tribute to my beloved Meryl Streep *blushes and giggles*
> 
> As always, a big THANKS to Ame and to all of you who continue to read and review this story, I love you!
> 
> Enjoy (?)

Chapter Ten: It's Complicated

Charles rose, more tired than he should be that morning. Three weeks had passed since his return to Downton, and he had slept very little.  
Elsie Hughes had been giving him the cold shoulder since his return from London, and the effects on him were noticeable.

Not that she refused to work professionally with him as she had always done, no, but when it came time to share a joke or have a chat with him in the evenings, she vanished.  
She preferred to spend her evenings in the kitchen with Mrs. Patmore or in the Servants' Hall, mending socks in company of Anna, Mr. Bates, and the maids.

The servants sensed the bad blood between the housekeeper and the butler; they rarely spoke now, even at lunch or dinner, but no one dared ask.  
Once Charles heard Daisy ask Mrs. Patmore why the two heads of the house behaved that way, and Beryl has silenced her with a "best if you mind your own business, Daisy".

During her few half days off, Elsie usually went to town only to return in the evening just in time for dinner.  
He hadn't yet discovered where she went.

His mind kept jumping to the possibility of a romantic entanglement.  
He shook his head. No, that wasn't in Mrs. Hughes' character.

And yet it wouldn't be the first time she walked out with a man. His hands itched at the thought of Joe Burns.

No, he was sure she went to town only to visit some friend of hers. That was the only possible explanation.  
He almost laughed at himself as he stood up and went to wash his face, hoping to clear out his mind as well.

He hated those thoughts. They haunted him especially at night, and kept him from sleep.

The situation was almost a paradox. Thoughts of Elsie the past few years always haunted him, but they were sweet thoughts, tinged with affection, love and, recently, even lust.

But now, suddenly, thoughts of her were filled with such grief, such pain. It affected not only his thoughts and his sleep, but his whole person.

Elsie Hughes was more than a colleague to him, she always had been, but he had realized it too late… too late to solve the situation.

What was he thinking? Did he really believe that with a simple apology he could make up for all he had done? He didn't know if Elsie Hughes felt something for him, but if she did, surely they were doomed now. And it was all his fault.

"Good morning, Doctor Clarkson," Charles greeted as he opened the heavy front door.

"Good morning, Mr. Carson," replied the other man, stepping inside.

"Are you here to visit little Master Crawley?" Charles couldn't help but ask.

"Indeed I am, Mr. Carson. I'm here to check on him and Lady Mary as well."

Charles straightened his back. "Very well, I'll show you upstairs."

Only then did he notice a woman exiting by herself out of Dr Clarkson's car. The butler cursed himself for not noticing her before.  
Since when did thoughts of Elsie affect even his work and professionalism?

"I'm deeply sorry, ma'am, I did not see you…" Carson started.

"It's quite alright Carson, no need to worry," replied a soft voice with a slight Manchester accent.

"Oh, good morning Mrs. Crawley," he greeted, visibly relieved. He didn't know why but the fact that it was her and not another woman, relaxed him a bit.

He had always underestimated her. He'd disliked her, at first, for being a doctor's wife who had come to deprive the Dowager of the hospital, and for having a son that would inherit the Abbey in place of Lady Mary.  
He disliked her because she had tried to render the Abbey a permanent convalescent house, for her work with prostitutes, and for the friction between her and Mrs Hughes regarding Ethel.

He had never truly considered her part of the family, and realized that Mrs. Crawley herself probably did not feel much part of the family either, now that her son was dead.

"I met Dr Clarkson on the way to the hospital," Isobel said, censuring the fact that she was going there to meet him. "He told me he was coming here and he offered me a lift that I accepted eagerly. It's been more than a week since I've seen my little George."

"Very well, ma'am, if you'd follow me."

They followed the butler inside and neither of them spoke another word.

Elsie was in her parlour checking the linen rota when a knock on the door interrupted her. She raised her head and felt herself stiffen.

"Enter," she heard herself say.

Isobel's frame appeared in the doorway and her shoulders immediately relaxed. "Good morning, Elsie. I came here to visit my grandson and I thought I might pop in here for a while, if you don't mind me," she explained with a smile.

"Of course I don't mind you, Isobel. Please come in and take a sit."

Mrs. Crawley sat and smiled at the housekeeper. "So, how are you? It's been a while since we've seen one another."

"It has been almost two weeks, but I feel rather the same I'm afraid."

"May I ask you a question?"

"Please do."

"Hasn't he explained why he didn't write while he was away?" Isobel asked.

Elsie shook her head. "I didn't give him time to explain for fear he might come up with some cockamamie story… I know I would have believed him like the fool I am."

"You're not a fool, Elsie. Please don't say that." Isobel's face softened at her friend's words.

Mrs Hughes didn't reply.

"Maybe if you had let him explain he would have told you the truth. You should have more faith in him."

Elsie sighed, "I don't know, I feel like… like he doesn't want to deepen our relationship. Maybe I was the only one that saw a change. In the months before he left for London he seemed different, but it must have been my imagination. I don't ask for much, do I? Why couldn't he have just written to me, as he used to?"

"May I speak to you frankly?" Isobel asked once again.

"Certainly."

"I think you should give him the chance to say what he has to say. You never gave him the chance for an explanation… maybe now he doesn't feel that he has the right to say anything."

"Well, now the mess is said and done and there's nothing I can do to solve it," Mrs. Hughes protested stubbornly.

Isobel frowned. "I don't think so. If you only had more patience with him…"

"The thing is, I'm tired of waiting for him. I'm tired of suffering because of him and his words, because he fears to feel something or doesn't feel anything for me."

"I've already told you but I'll repeat myself. I think he does care a lot about you, he's just shyer about his feelings. It might be he doesn't know how to reveal them or fears a rejection. He is a man, after all, he doesn't share our keen eye for perception." Isobel winked.

Elsie laughed quietly and, for the first time in two weeks, the smile reached her eyes.

Richard was going down the stairs when the booming voice of Charles Carson reached him.  
"Doctor Clarkson!"

"Yes, Mr. Carson?"

"May I have a word?"

"Of course. How can I help you?"

"The thing is, since I've returned from London… I'm sleeping very little. I have difficulties falling asleep at night."

The Doctor looked briefly at his pocket watch. "I'm late for my rounds at the hospital, but we can see each other tomorrow or… when is your next half day?"

Charles thought about it for a few seconds. "I could take a half day off, I suppose."

"Well, if you're able to come tomorrow afternoon, my office at the hospital is open. If not, call me and I'll come for you here."

"Thank you, Doctor."

"Goodbye, Mr Carson. Have a nice day."

Carson sighed in relief. Maybe now he could get some sleep and get this whole mess sorted out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to encourage poor Charles and make Elsie see reason? Leave a review! ;)


	11. Chapter Eleven: Medical Advice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! I'm really sorry to have kept you waiting this long, but I found some friends of mine here, so I'm going out every afternoon and evenin, and I don't have much time for writing... sorry about that!
> 
> To make you forgive me I wrote a very long chapter, hoping you'll like it of course.
> 
> My thanks as always go to Ame and to all of you who read and review. I'll try to update more often :)

**Chapter Eleven: Medical Advice**

 

  
  
“A half day off you say, Carson?” asked Lord Grantham that morning.   
  
“I understand I asked with too little notice, m’lord, but if you could do without me today…”  
  
“The thing is, Carson, you know we have guests at dinner tonight. Important guests.”  
  
He cursed himself mentally. How could have he forgotten? The family had enlisted this dinner two weeks before.   
“Of course, m’lord. I remember.”  
  
“You have worked hard in these months, Carson, I’ve seen it. And you’ve never taken a half day off. I understand how tired you must feel.”  
  
Charles didn’t reply.  
  
“If you could just hold out for another day or two, I assure you you can take as many half days off as you wish this month.”  
  
“I only require one, m’lord. Thank you for your understanding.”  
  
“Thank you, Carson. You’re such an essential part of this household, I’m not quite sure what we would do without you.”  
  
Charles straightened his back. Hearing his employer praising him and his work made him very proud of himself.  
“Thank you m’lord. You’re very kind to say that.”  
  
Lord Grantham smiled at him as Charles took his leave, after bowing slightly to him.  
He was on his way downstairs when he was struck with a sudden thought and turned on his heel.   
He knocked on the library door before entering.  
  
“Lord Grantham, I forgot to ask if I could use the telephone for a minute. I need to call Doctor Clarkson.”  
  
“Of course you may, Carson. Are you not feeling well?”  
  
“I am, m’lord. I’m feeling perfectly well, I just need a doctor’s counsel.”  
  
Lord Grantham chose not to inquire any further. “Very well then. But if you don’t feel well please inform me, I will not have you working if you are ill. We’ve lost enough people in this house.”  
  
“Certainly, m’lord. Thank you, m’lord.”  
  
*

  
“Thank you for coming, Doctor Clarkson,” said Charles once he entered his pantry.  
  
“It’s no problem at all, Mr Carson. I’m glad to help you, it’s my job after all,” explained the other man.  
“So, what seems to be the trouble?”  
  
Charles closed the door carefully before sitting in front of him. “I’ve had some trouble falling asleep at night.”  
  
“Do you have any idea what might be the cause?”  
  
“I don’t know…” Charles lied, clearly ill-at-ease.   
  
“Perhaps it’s just the stresses of work?”  
  
“Oh no, it’s caused heart problems, as you may recall, but never interfered with my sleep.”  
  
“Do you eat regularly?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Elsie was descending the stairs with her arms full of sheets. She had been helping some of the maids; that night they were having very important guests at dinner and some might stay for the night.  
As she was walking in the hallway, Anna stopped her. “Mrs Hughes…”  
  
“Yes, Anna?”  
  
“I’ve just seen Doctor Clarkson entering Mr Carson’s pantry. Is he feeling alright?”  
  
Anna was a dear girl, always troubling herself for the welfare of others, but honestly, how could she know if he was feeling well? They’d scarcely spoken to one another in weeks.  
  
“I don’t know, Anna. He’s old enough to look after himself, after all,” she replied curtly.  
  
Seeing her disconcerted look, she sighed and added. “Don’t worry, I’ll check on him later.”   
  
When the head housemaid left however, Elsie couldn’t help but eavesdrop on the door of his pantry. She heard Doctor Clarkson’s voice coming from inside.   
“And you are having no digestive problems?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Digestion? Was Charles having serious health issues again?   
  
Doctor Clarkson sighed and look at the older man.   
“Listen, Mr Carson. If you have any idea or suspicion about the cause of your trouble sleeping then you should tell me now. I’m your doctor and all you may say to me will remain confidential.”  
  
Charles turned a slight shade of pink and looked down at his shoes.  
Clarkson waited in silence for his answer.   
  
“You see, Doctor, between me and Mrs Hughes there isn’t…well that is to say that…we…we aren’t exactly on the best of terms.”  
  
Elsie strained her ears. Had she heard correctly? Had he mentioned her as the source of his issues?  
  
“Oh,” commented the Scottish man, visibly surprised. “Did you quarrel?”  
  
Charles shrugged. “Sort of.”  
  
“I see. And does this affect your work?”  
  
“No, my work isn’t the cause of my problem.”   
Really, sometimes that man could be deliberately obtuse, Charles thought.  
  
“Is it the quarrel with Mrs. Hughes then?”  
  
Charles took a deep breath. “Yes. Yes, it is.”  
He was clearly embarrassed by the whole situation.  
  
“And you… you can’t possibly solve this issue? Maybe you could talk with her and apologize.”  
  
Yeah, apologizing might do the trick, but had he enough courage? And most of all, would she listen to him?  
  
“It’s complicated.”  
  
“I’ll be sincere with you, Mr Carson. I could prescribe something to help you sleep but that won’t help you at all. It’d be best if were to make peace with Mrs Hughes, if she’s the cause of your problems. This will grant you a more relaxing and healthy sleep.”  
  
“Make peace with me? That won’t happen even if Lady Mary asks it of him,” Elsie thought, exasperated. “If he comes and apologize to me, I am King George. This business is ridiculous.”   
  
“During my life I learned it’s better to apologize when in the wrong and sometimes even when not, especially when the person you quarrelled with is a lady,” offered the Doctor with an air of one who knows what’s what.  
  
If possible, Charles blushed even more fiercely under his knowing gaze and Clarkson smiled a little. He had hit the target.  
  
“Well, Mr Carson, my advice is to try and solve this matter between the two of you. You’ve always been good friends from what I recall, I’m sure it won’t be too difficult for you.”  
  
“Yeah, as easy as pie,” Charles thought sourly.  
  
“If you have any problems, don’t hesitate to call me.”  
  
Elsie left before Doctor Clarkson could open the door. As she made her way to the laundry, she thought to herself, “If he thinks he can simply walk to me, apologize and beg for my forgiveness to solve everything and go back to sleep peacefully, he’s very much mistaken.”  
  
*  
That night, Charles waited until the major part of the staff had gone to bed.   
Mrs Hughes had spent her evening in the servants’ hall as always, to avoid talking to him if not strictly necessary.   
He didn’t know if he had missed her going to bed or not, however, when he heard the sound of a chair scraping the floor and Mrs Patmore voice saying “Goodnight, Elsie” he strained his ears.   
She was still awake then.  
  
“Wait, Beryl, I’m coming too.”  
  
He heard their feet shuffling in the hallway and he decided to stop her.  
He put his head out of his pantry and called her uncertainly.

  
Elsie stiffed in the middle of the corridor and turned slowly, looking at him. “Yes, Mr Carson? Do you need something?”  
  
“I’d like to talk to you,” he said. “It’s about tomorrow’s dinner,” he lied, sensing Mrs. Patmore’s eyes on him.  
  
Elsie tried not roll her eyes at him. Did he really need to speak about it in that moment? She was going to bed for God’s sake.  
“I’m all ears, Mr Carson,” she sighed going into his pantry and looking back to Beryl with an apologizing expression.  
  
After she had entered, Charles closed the door, his hand hovering on the handle, uncertain whether to lock or not the door. After a good twenty seconds, he decided against it.   
  
“Well?” she asked, crossing her arms over her…  
  
“That is the last place you should be looking at in this moment, Charles Carson,” hissed a voice in his head.   
  
“I… I called you here to… not to talk about tomorrow’s dinner,” he confessed.  
  
She opened her eyes wide, surprised. “And why did you call me here if not to talk about tomorrow’s dinner?”  
  
“You see… I wanted to apologize.”  
  
“Oh please, don’t let it be that thing I heard this afternoon,” Elsie thought.  
“What for, Mr. Carson?” she demanded sharply.   
  
“I tried to explain the whole thing when I returned from London but…” He trailed off, stopping entirely.  
  
Elsie waited a while before responding, “I already told you I have no idea what are you talking about.”  
  
“Mrs Hughes, please, let me explain…”  
  
“I’m sorry, Mr Carson, I’m feeling very tired. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going straight to bed.”  
She exited from his pantry before he had the chance to grab her arm and let her see reason.   
He shook himself out of his trance and followed her in the corridor. “Mrs. Hughes! Mrs. Hughes!” he called her twice.  
  
Elsie ignored him; he knew she had perfectly heard his booming voice.  
  
“Well, this is my repayment for not having cared a fig about her when I should have,” he thought miserably, retiring in his pantry, alone. Again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How about leaving a review to this poor girl? Thank you :)


	12. Chapter Twelve: Something Worth Fighting For

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi darlings! Here's another chapter for you. Next one will arrive tonight hopefully, if I finish it quickly and Ame can check it.
> 
> Tomorrow I'm going at the seaside with a friend of mine for a few days, so I won't be here or on Tumblr.
> 
> If I'm able, I'll upload my new character's study video on Youtube (it's about Cora). I'll post the link on Tumblr as well.
> 
> Enjoy the chapter and have a good day ;)

**Chapter Twelve: Something Worth Fighting For**

Elsie woke up with her neck cramping badly. She turned in her bed and that made her feel worse; another acute pang hit her neck.

She moaned and tried to rise from her bed. "I must have caught a cold during the night," she thought sourly.  
Well, that wasn't unlikely. She hadn't slept a wink.  
Despite all her efforts, thoughts of that blasted Charles Carson had continued to haunt her mind from night to day.

She had to admit she had been almost moved by his contriteness the previous evening. He seemed truly sorry and he probably would have convinced her straight away if she hadn't heard his conversation with the Doctor.  
She knew he wouldn't have tried to apologize again if Doctor Clarkson hadn't told him so. No, he wouldn't have, because Charles Carson was too damn proud.  
She knew he just wanted to relieve his conscience so he could sleep peacefully. Surely his heart wasn't really in it.

She knew why he hadn't written to her during the Season.  
They had grown closer during the previous months: her cancer scare and Lady Sybil's and Mr Crawley's deaths had brought them closer than ever.  
When he had discovered she wasn't going to die, he had sung for her in joy, in relief, hidden in his pantry while polishing the silver.  
He had held her hand, almost held her close to him the night of Lady Sybil's death. She didn't know how much she would have given to hold him or be held by him.  
When Mr Crawley died she had brought him to bed and prepared his tea. He looked almost as distraught as Lady Mary had when she returned home from the hospital.

And even if she knew he didn't care for her, she couldn't help but wonder what is reaction would be if she died.

*

Charles had been awake since the crack of dawn, tossing and turning in his bed.  
He had fallen asleep for two or three hours. Despite his exhaustion, he couldn't help but feel guilty, imagining she probably had slept very little or probably hadn't slept at all.

"You flatter yourself, old man," whispered a voice in his mind. "Do you think she cares for you as she used to now that you've disappointed her like that? She has accepted the situation and now she lives with it. Why would this keep her up all night?"

Of course she didn't care for him as she used to, Charles knew that perfectly well. But he still couldn't help hoping that he could resolve the situation.

She had always been there for him, even when she was only head housemaid and they exchanged an occasional chatter during meals in the servants' hall.  
When she had become housekeeper she had been the first to invite him to her parlour and started the habit of spending the evening together as good friends.

She had always given more to him than Charles to her and he saw that now. Maybe you can understand how much a person means to you only when you lose them. Now he understood. He truly understood how much Elsie Hughes meant to him.  
She was the only one that could calm him down and the only one that had the courage to stand up to him when his standards were too high; she was the only true friend he had ever had, she was the only one he would ever love.

His love for her went deeper than he had realized, he thought.  
He had always despised love stories and romance books, in which the characters fell almost instantly in love and suffered theatrically because they couldn't be together.  
His love for Elsie Hughes had grown little by little, day by day, year by year and suddenly Charles felt exactly like those literary characters he had always despised. Never before had he suffered for a woman like that; no other woman had ever made him feel this way.  
He knew he could go to her in that instant, open her bedroom door, get on his knees, and beg her to forgive him.  
Only propriety and his thrice damned pride stopped him from doing that.

He had tried to apologize to her once and she hadn't listened to him.  
He had apologized twice and she didn't hear his reasons.  
Her behaviour angered a small part of him. How could she refuse to listen to him? His colleague and closest friend? She was being ridiculous.

And yet, when he heard movement in the room adjacent to his (a clear signal she was getting up) he couldn't help but think how lovely it be to held her in his arms and place a kiss on her soft lips, or simply greet her with a smile in the morning and exchange playful jokes at the breakfast table.

He couldn't help but think Elsie Hughes was worth it. All of it.

*

The doorbell rang and Isobel almost rushed to the door in haste to answer.  
She opened it to reveal a smiling Doctor Clarkson with a small bunch of colourful flowers.

"Good morning, love," he greeted her, placing a small kiss on her cheek.

Isobel moved her head the wrong way and ended up grazing her lips against his. Suddenly emboldened by his nearness, she entwined her fingers behind his neck and made him lower his head down to kiss him properly.

"Well, that was a welcome greeting," he commented, a smug smile on his lips.

Isobel laughed softly and kissed him again. This time Richard responded more eagerly to her attentions.  
When they pulled apart, she smiled at him again and took the flowers from his hands.

"Are these for me? Thank you, Richard."

"It's always a pleasure, dear."

She made her way to the kitchen and he placed his jacket and hat on the hall stand by the door.  
Three months before they had shared their first kiss and to him it seemed only yesterday.

She seemed to benefit from his presence and it couldn't make him happier.  
She had started laughing more often and even the dark cloud that overshadowed her eyes from time to time seemed to appear less and less and for that he was glad.  
He knew nothing could replace her son in her life but if something or someone could help to ease her pain, he was more than glad to be that someone.

Isobel returned from the kitchen with a small glass vase in which she had put the flowers and she motioned for him to follow her into the drawing room.  
She put the vase on the table in front of the settee and sat down admiring them.

"They're beautiful."

"I'm glad you like them."

"How has the morning gone?"

"Rather well, fortunately. We dismissed two patients from the hospital because they're fully recovered."

"That's good to hear."

After a moment of silence Isobel added, "Molesley told me you went to visit Mr Carson at the Abbey yesterday. Is he well?"

Richard looked at her, surprised. "How did you know?"

"Molesley met with Cousin Cora's new maid this morning and she told him he saw you yesterday."

"I see. Yes, I went to visit Mr Carson, but he's well, fortunately."

Seeing a frown appear on Isobel's forehead, he asked what was troubling her.

"It's just… oh, never mind."

"No please, Isobel, darling, tell me what's wrong."

Isobel looked around as if someone was overhearing their conversation. "Alright, I'll tell you, but please don't tell anyone."

"And who on Earth would I tell?" asked Richard.

Isobel ignored him. "It's about Mrs Hughes. We've grown rather close in these months, as you know, and she told me she has some… problems with Mr Carson."

"Does she?" he replied. This was getting more and more interesting. "What kind of problems?"

"Well, I'll make it short. He hasn't written to her during the Season as he used to and she is disappointed because they are good friends and have grown… quite close."

When Richard didn't speak, Isobel went on, "I understand as a butler he must have been very busy in London, but he surely could have spared a minute or two to write a letter to poor Elsie. Even a short one, I'm sure it would have made her happy."

"It's curious," Richard commented.

"What is?"

"They hung about each other for years and they still haven't noticed they're in love with one another."

"Elsie is clearly in love with him, I'm sure of it. I'm not sure about Mr Carson, but he certainly cares a lot for her. How can they be so blind about the whole situation, I wonder?"

"I don't think they're blind. I'd say neither of the two wants to make the first step towards the other."

"That's a pity. They just need …a little courage."

"Like you did?" he asked, remembering their first kiss.

"Like I did," agreed Isobel. He put his arms around her and kissed her tenderly.

"I just wish they could be as lucky as us. To have each other, I mean. Surely it's something worth fighting for."

"They'll solve the situation, you'll see," he said, kissing her head gently.

"I hope so," answered Isobel. "Oh, I really hope so."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter Charles will come into action.
> 
> An this is the part where I beg for some reviews while you wait for updates (?)


	13. Chapter Thirteen: Resolving a Misunderstanding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here goes chapter thirteen, as I promised you.
> 
> My thanks go to Ame, a fantastic beta who now, unfortunately for me, won't be able to check my chapters again because she starts law school. A HUGE thanks and good luck to her!
> 
> Thank you for your kind reviews and thanks to Angie (fantasy-fallacy-tumblingstone on Tumblr) who will pick up Ame's job.
> 
> I'll update hopefully next week. Have a good day!

**Chapter Thirteen: Resolving A Misunderstanding**

  
  
Charles descended the stairs and headed towards the servant’s hall.  
He was in a foul mood because the morning hadn’t gone well at all.  
  
He had tried to sort things out with Mrs Hughes… again. He was determined to put this problem to rest. He even took the letters meant for her with him, but he hadn’t had the chance to speak with her yet.   
  
He must have stopped her ten times that morning, but she was busy with one household chore or another and she always found a way to avoid him.   
  
He had first tried to speak with her just after breakfast, but she had excused herself saying she had to help the maids strip the beds the guests had used the night before.   
  
He had stopped her again in the middle of the hallway, but she had her arms full of sheets and she continued on her way without even looking at him.  
  
Next, he had tried to stop her in the kitchen (it’d been strangely empty) but Mrs. Patmore had returned within seconds with Daisy and Ivy.   
He had come back to the kitchen half an hour later only to find her still talking with Beryl.  
  
Charles even introduced the subject during luncheon, but it fell on deaf ears, for she pretended not to know what he was talking about, again.  
  
Now he had been looking for her upstairs, but she was nowhere to be seen.   
He grunted as he retired in his pantry, looking so fearsome that even Thomas didn’t dare ask him what had happened.   
  
That was enough, he thought. She was deliberately ignoring him.   
She was pushing him over the edge and she knew it.  
  
She knew how much apologizing would cost to him and yet she was trying to make him beg on his knees or crawl on the floor.  
She knew he was truly sorry and yet she persisted in acting as if she hadn’t a clue of what he was trying to tell her.  
  
But he had no intention of giving up. No, sir.

He had given up too many times when it came to her.  
  
He had just sat down to check the wine ledger when he heard Anna’s voice in the hallway.  
“Mrs Hughes?”  
  
“Yes, Anna?”  
  
Her voice made him strain his ears.  
  
“The other maids have hung the linen to dry, but there are dark clouds in the sky. I think it’s going to rain.”  
  
He heard the shuffling of feet, maybe she had gone to the window to check. Then he heard her voice in the distance. “You’re right, Anna, best if we gather up the linen. And quickly too.”  
  
He heard them going away and the sound of the back door opening and closing.  
He exited from his pantry, then he checked if there was anyone in the hallway before going to the window to look outside.  
  
Anna was right, indeed. Dark clouds stood menacingly in the sky; it would rain cats and dogs shortly.  
  
He saw them gathering the linen outside. The small form of Anna was moving swiftly between the white sheets hanging on the thread, pulling them down with the help of another woman, taller and more shapely, whom he recognized as Mrs. Hughes.  
  
After Elsie carefully folded the sheets, she gave them to Anna and motioned for her to put them safely inside, while she resumed her work folding pillowcases and towels.  
  
He decided almost instantly what to do. He went out at a determined pace. She was pulling down a quilt. “Mrs Hughes, may I speak with you?”  
  
“Why, Mr Carson, if you ask it so politely I can’t possibly refuse,” she answered in a mocking tone, without even turning to face him.  
  
He took a deep breath. That woman was playing with fire.  
  
“So, Mr Carson, what did you want to tell me?” she demanded, rolling the ‘r’ of his surname.  
  
Suddenly the words failed him “I… I wanted to…” he stumbled.   
  
She snorted.   
  
“Come on, old man,” he thought.  
“I apologize, Mrs Hughes.”  
  
She almost laughed in his face. If he thought she would be playing his game he was mistaken. “What for, Mr Carson?”   
  
“I apologize for… for what happened.”  
  
She continued to do her work, not looking at him. “What happened?” she asked, trying to sound unaware.  
  
He inhaled sharply. “Why are you trying to make this difficult for me? I’m here for the fifth time in a few days, trying to apologize to you for what I’ve done, but you continue to ignore me or feign ignorance on the matter.”  
  
A thunder clap resounded in the sky above.  
  
She fought not to let her surprise show. He had never talked to her in such a frank way.  
“Oh yes, Mr Carson, please forgive me, I didn’t listen to you straight away when I should have. I’m all ears now.”  
  
She was mocking him again and Charles burst. “You insufferable woman! Who do you think you are?”  
  
Her temper rose and she turned to face him. “I’m Elsie Hughes, Housekeeper of Downton Abbey! And pray, who made you holier than me?!”  
  
The first drops of rain started falling.  
  
“I will not tolerate you speaking to me in this tone, Mrs Hughes.”  
  
“And I don’t care what you tolerate or not, Mr Carson. I’m sick of this, of all of this. I’m sick of you! You think you can simply come to me and apologize after all you’ve done to me. Just so you may return to sleep in peace at night because your conscience isn’t clean!”  
  
His eyes widened in shock. “You… you heard that…”  
  
“Of course I heard your conversation with Doctor Clarkson, you daft man!”  
  
“You didn’t have the right!”  
  
She snorted again. “I eavesdropped because, as always, I was concerned about you! But you have never noticed that, have you?”  
  
“You should have come to me and asked me if I was well.”  
  
“ _I_ should have come to _you_?” Her voice grew angrier. “After what you _did_?”  
  
The rain started falling harder.  
  
He was truly confused now. “What have I done?”  
  
She sighed, suddenly tired. “I don’t even know why I am still bothering with you, Mr Carson.”  
  
He stumbled in search for words. “I… I… You hadn’t the right… You…”  
  
She laughed bitterly and bit her lip to avoid start crying.   
Suddenly everything seemed to have lost its purpose. “You’re right, Mr Carson. I didn’t have the right. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”  
  
He remained rooted on the spot while she turned away from him. His brain was working like mad.   
No, he couldn’t let her go away or he wouldn’t have the chance to explain himself and he would lose her.  
  
He reached for her and grabbed her arm.   
She turned, surprised. The pillowcases she had folded carefully fell from her arms. He pulled at her and started dragging her to the bicycle shed.   
  
“Mr Carson, where the… devil are you taking me?”  
  
“Somewhere we can talk properly.”  
  
He opened the door and motioned for her to go inside.  
She obliged, almost frightened by him.  
  
He closed the door with a soft bang. “Now. We can talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What will happen next? Make your bets and leave a review in the meantime (?)


	14. Chapter Fourteen: A Confrontation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! I apologize for the delay. Really, I'm so sorry. A big thank you to my new beta, Angie (fantasy-fallacy-tumblingstone on Tumblr).
> 
> I hope the chapter is up to your expectations and thank you all for the reviews you left me, I literally adored reading them.
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to an user (I don't know why but when I write her username here it deletes itself!) whose review was very moving and almost made me cry. If this is what I can do to make you feel a little better, I'm glad of doing it.

**Chapter Fourteen: A Confrontation**

Elsie looked around, suddenly panicking.

He was standing between her and the closed door and they were surrounded by darkness except for a little window on her left, where the light came in almost timidly.

There was no way for her to escape the confrontation.

She let out a shuddering breath. "Charles Carson, let me go this instant," she hissed angrily.

His reply was surprisingly calm. "Not until you've listened to me completely."

"You let me go!" she spat. "I have work to do and you can't…"

He had to remain calm. He had to be the clear headed one now. "Where do you think you are going? It's raining cats and dogs outside."

Elsie stood on her tiptoes to look outside. He was right indeed: a fierce storm was raging outside of the bicycle shed.

She turned to face him and pointed at him with her forefinger. "You closed me up here, you… you insufferable man!"

Charles sighed. Oh, how much had he to bear, to see that situation to an end? "Mrs Hughes…" he tried to stop her.

She continued her tirade. "You brought me here so I could listen to you…"

"Mrs Hughes…" he almost pleaded.

"… bumbling your meaningless apologies!"

Her sentence was the final straw. "Elsie Hughes, will you listen to me?" he burst out exasperated, while shaking her slightly by the shoulders.

Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth in surprise.

Charles realized he had exaggerated and tried to regain his composure.

His expression softened and he looked at her in the eyes. "Please, Mrs Hughes, I'm trying to explain myself to you."

A faint blush appeared on her cheeks and she averted her eyes, suddenly shy as a maid. She tried to focus on his hands on her arms, not knowing where to look.

He noticed that and released his grip on her reluctantly.

She almost let out a whimper of disappointment. Her skin burned where he had touched her.

Her voice croaked when she spoke. "Well then. Tell me what you have to, Mr Carson."

He took a deep breath. "Don't mess up now, man," he thought.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Hughes," he repeated again for the umpteenth time that day. "I really am. I know I should have written to you during the Season and the reason why I keep trying to talk to you is to tell you I did. I wrote to you."

Elsie held her breath. What? He had written to her? How? When?

He drew some letters out of his waistcoat pocket and she almost gasped in surprise.

Mr Carson handed them to her. "You see, I wrote to you. I didn't have a lot of free time but I found a few moments to write these. There are five of them."

She took the letters from his hands, at loss for words.

After several seconds, which to him seemed an eternity, she spoke again. "Why… why didn't you send them to me?"

And here he was, hidden in a bicycle shed with the woman he loved with an angry storm outside… trying to explain to her why he was so pigheaded and stupid.

"Because… because I'm not a brave man, Mrs Hughes, Elsie."

She didn't know how much it cost to him, calling her Elsie. Even if he had wanted to call her by her first name for years, it sounded strange on his lips. Strange, but sweet anyway.

Elsie opened her mouth but closed it after a while, unsure on what to say. It was the first time she heard her first name coming from him and it felt so nice and sweet... he had never crossed the line of propriety: to make such a bold move his butler sensor was probably going crazy in that moment.

After all, the mere fact they were closed in the bicycle shed together was crazy.

"I was afraid of making a wrong move and ruining our… friendship," he added, uncertain on what term was best to describe the relationship they had.

After a moment of silence a sparkle shone in her eyes, as if she had found something to say.

"You said you were afraid of ruining our friendship…"

"I did," he interrupted her.

"…but why, since writing to each other during the Season has always been part of our relationship in these years?"

"Because this year everything is different. A lot of things happened and they made me think."

Elsie thought of Lady Sybil's and Mr Crawley's death, of her cancer scare and all the difficulties they had gone through during that year but none of them seemed to have radically changed Mr Carson's beliefs and convictions, not to mention his behaviour towards her.

He seemed to have softened a little, yes, but that invisible barrier was still there, keeping them apart.

What was he referring to?

She suddenly realized they were standing closer than necessary. Closer than propriety should allow.

Oh, damn it. They had already thrown propriety to the wind.

Elsie looked at him in the eyes, fighting hard to maintain the courage she seemed to have found suddenly.

"And what did you think of?" she asked in a whisper.

He sighed aloud. "I thought… I thought of me. I thought of you, of us."

She could feel his warm breath on her face, his deep brown eyes set on hers.  
She couldn't help but shiver.

He had thought of her. He had thought of them. In which way? She hadn't the slightest idea.

Oh, she had thought of him and often. But had he thought of her in the same way?

"I see," she managed to reply, while hoping desperately he would explain everything more clearly.

Their bodies barely touched and she could hear the soft sound of his breathing, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He was nervous, maybe just as nervous as she was.

Charles' mind was working like mad. He wanted so hard to spit it all out, to tell her everything, but something kept him from declaring his blinding love for her.

He wanted to break the matter to her gently, forever afraid of ruining the precious thing they had between each other, that sort of relationship made of little daily gestures and kindnesses as well as rows and quarrels typical of middle-aged married couples.

They spent almost all the day together, they shared confidences and supported each other just like a married couple would do. She cared for him and he cared for her, even if maybe not as much as her.

They lived and behaved almost like man and wife, with the difference of being unmarried, sleeping in different beds and that she hadn't a clue of his feelings towards her and probably would never know if he persisted in speaking his mind like that.

"A slight difference," he thought sarcastically.

Elsie Hughes was growing impatient. He didn't seem to have the intention of continuing his speech, instead he kept staring at her with a strange look in his eyes.

"Oh, this man!" she thought. "Must I take out all he has to say?"

It irked her to no end she had to take the initiative again, as always. But her heart softened at seeing him like this, with an expression of devotion and confusion on his face that made him look a little boy again.

She bit her lip. "And what have you realized?" she asked, her voice soft.

The sound of her voice brought him out of his reverie.

"I realized I love you. I love you so much it hurts me. This whole situation hurts me," he almost blurted out.

He cleared his throat and looked at her seriously, as if he was finally focusing on her person. "I realized I care about you more than I thought and…"

His throat tightened and words failed him.

He was standing close, oh so close to her. He could feel the warmth of her body and smell the scent of her hair… suddenly the bicycle shed felt stuffy.

"He cares about me? That's interesting," she thought, surprised.

"And?" she incited him gently.

He swallowed. "and I'm… I'm fond of you, Mrs.. Elsie."

She looked at him, blinking. "I see."

He couldn't resist and he put his hands on her arms, drawing her closer still. "Do you?" he asked, almost breathless. "Do you see, truly?"

His nearness was overwhelming. She had to breathe in deeply before answering. "I don't. Not really, Mr Carson."

"I'm fond of you," what could that possibly mean? Was he fond of her as a friend should be? It might be he was apologizing to her and showing he cared for her after all and that he had not forgotten her during the Season. Like a good friend should do.

A friend, nothing more.

He looked at her as if she was a ghost, an ectoplasm, something invisible and out of reach.

She didn't know if he was implying something more and she had no intention of putting everything at stake to reveal her love for him.

"I don't… know how to put it…" he stumbled.

"Well, in this case it may be better if you don't say anything," she offered in a low voice.

"Yes. Maybe," he replied uncertainly, speaking more to himself than to her.

Elsie pulled away from him gently and he let her.

She looked outside the window but the rain was still falling down hard. "We won't go out for a while I'm afraid."

Charles took his jacket off and put it on the floor, then motioned for her to sit down on it. "We'll wait then," he announced.

After she had sat down he followed her.

"I'm sorry to have shut you in here with a grumpy old butler," he apologized.

"I don't mind," she replied, waving her hand slightly to minimize it. "As long as the grumpy old butler behaves himself."

He chuckled. "He will."

"Will you read my letters?" Charles asked after a moment of silence, looking at her with such a hopeful boyish expression she couldn't help but smile.

"I will, Mr Carson. I promise."

He smiled at that and Elsie's heart fluttered in her chest.

Suddenly feeling bold, Charles reached out for her and took her hand in his.

She gasped in surprise but didn't pull back, instead she squeezed his hand.

And in that moment Charles Carson knew that, one day or another, all his issues would come to an end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't kill me Chelsie shippers, but I couldn't make them kiss, not yet anyway. Several matters aren't sorted out yet. Chapter fifteen is on its way, I promise not to make you wait so much this time!
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me. [Insert shameless plea for a review here]


	15. Chapter Fifteen: Just Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I forgot to update the story in here.  
> I will update the other chapters I already published on ff.net in the days to come.

When Charles arrived at breakfast the morning after their making up, the servants' hall was engaged in a quiet chatter that died out almost as soon as he entered the room.

He took his place at the head of the table and greeted everyone with a "good morning", then turned his head towards Mrs Hughes, to greet her as well.

 

"Good morning, Mr Carson" she replied calmly.

 

Everyone in the servants' hall stood rooted on their spots, listening to their exchange in utter stupor.

Charles acted as though nothing strange was happening and sat down quietly, waiting for the others to emulate him.

After they all sat, Daisy started serving at the table.

 

"I trust you slept well?" Charles asked Mrs Hughes casually.

 

"I did, thank you."

It was the first time after all those weeks she had actually slept straight from night till morning - of course she had slept well.

 

"What about you?" she asked, startling him.

 

"Pardon?"

 

"Did you have a good night's sleep too?" she repeated, smiling at the lost and confused look on his face.

 

"Oh, I did," he answered, while his mind wandered miles away.

He couldn't help smiling at the thought of his first night of proper sleep, after so many weeks of troubled nights.

 

He was probably still staring at her, for she averted her eyes and focused on her bowl to avoid her blushing.

Charles couldn't help the smug smile that appeared on his face. He felt a bit proud of himself for having handled things rather well with her; he didn't know why, but her shy countenance made him feel proud even more. 

He felt as though he had finally made something right with her and, for the first time, he had no intention of letting the chance slip through his fingers.

 

*

 

"Where the hell were you last afternoon?" asked Mrs Patmore as soon as she had the occasion to be alone with Elsie.

 

"Never you mind," she teased her.

 

"Of course I mind, thank you very much! Do you think I didn't notice both the butler and the housekeeper disappeared from the house yesterday while it was raining cats and dogs outside?"

 

Mrs Hughes rolled her eyes at the ceiling and looked around herself for any indiscreet ears.

"Very well, I'll tell you," she whispered, exasperated.

 

Beryl widened her eyes. "Tell me what, Elsie Hughes? What were you two up to?"

 

"The cheek!" exclaimed the housekeeper theatrically. 

"If you don't behave yourself, I won't tell you anything."

 

At that remark the cook her held tongue. "Alright, alright. You win. Now tell me."

 

After she had finished her tale, Beryl stared at her in disbelief. "My, my, our butler has a heart after all."

 

Elsie looked at her in such an outraged way the cook couldn't help but smirk at her reaction. "Someone is quite touchy on the matter."

 

"Oh, stop it."

 

"So, what do you intend to do?"

 

"What do I intend to do with what?"

 

"With this situation of course!"

 

"There is no "situation" as you call it, Mrs Patmore."

 

"Oh yeah, and I'm the King of England!"

 

Elsie rolled her eyes once again - that woman was impossible.

Nothing had happened between the two of them, Elsie tried to convince herself. No, really, nothing had happened.

They had quarreled, apologized and made up - there was nothing wrong with it, was it?

She opened and closed her hand, the same hand he had squeezed slightly the day before. She felt it tingling whenever she thought of him.

 

She shook her head. Never mind that now.

The most important thing was that they were friends again and everything had gone back to normal.

Almost.

 

*

 

A week had passed since that afternoon she had spent in the bicycle shed with Charles.

She was reading his letters as she had promised, one every two nights. She knew she could read all of them together in one night, but she wanted to enjoy every one of them, to read his words and feel them sink into her.

 

He was right: a lot of things had happened in the last year, and if he had not changed at all in her opinion, his way of writing had. 

His letters were more tender and lacked that stiffness so typical of him. He still used complex circumlocutions and a pompous style, but his sentences weren’t as fluid as the previous years - they seemed confused and he had often crossed out words.

Elsie interpreted them as signs of uncertainty and hesitation, but why on earth would he hesitate when writing to her, his friend of years?

 

A lot of doubts crowded the housekeeper’s mind. He had said he was afraid of ruining their friendship and making a wrong move. He had also admitted he was fond of her.

But in which way?

She didn’t want to build castles in the sky, imagining he was fond of her in  _that_  way.

No, she didn’t even want to think about it. It would be too painful hoping, when he cared for her only as a good friend would.

 

Besides it wasn’t proper for a woman to show too much interest in a man, so if Mr Carson didn’t make a move, she would remain in her place, thank you very much.

She had convinced herself she could live being only his friend. After all, she had waited for him for years, why continuing to pine away for him instead of enjoying what she could have: his friendship and care?

 

The relationship between them had improved since the confrontation in the bicycle shed. There was no tension anymore between them, no “atmosphere”, as she called it.

 

She had forgiven him. She knew she had from the moment he had asked her to read his letters with that ridiculously boyish look on his face.

 

She knew she couldn't deny him anything, that was her weakness. And she also knew that, one day or another, they would come to terms with all those words unsaid, all those thoughts unspoken, all those years of restraint.

 

Until then, she contented herself with being only his friend.

“Yes,” she thought again that morning, “We can be only friends.  _I_  can be only his friend.”

 

*

 

Charles found himself distracted again from his work. Since their confrontation in the bicycle shed, he couldn't think straight.

 

His mind continued to wander to that day and he couldn't help but smile at the thought of her and her fierce temper. He knew he could have gripped her tight and silenced her by kissing her senseless. Oh, he wanted it  _so_ bad... but it simply wasn't in his character. He would never force Elsie into kissing him, because it would mean he didn't respect her when he did.

 

He admired and respected her as a person, as a colleague, as a friend and, most of all, as a woman.

He would never do such a thing to her, because he loved her and would hate it if he hurt her again, as he had already several times.

 

He was proud of himself in a way, proud of how he had handled the things between them. He knew he had made a mess not sending the letters, and he had required a great deal of courage to sort things out with her.

He hoped she had forgiven him and it seemed she did. Everything seemed to have gone back to normal, but he knew (they both knew) several matters had still to be resolved. And he wasn't looking forward to it.

 

Their misunderstanding was now solved, but he still had to find a way to tell her he loved her.

He wanted to tell her in a proper way, nothing rushed and improper. No hard and sudden kisses on the mouth, no grabbing her by the waist, no lustful glances... they would have time for that. Or so he hoped.

 

He was not sure yet if she cared for him in the same way, or better, he knew she cared a great deal for him, but he didn't know if she felt the same.

That morning, closed up in his pantry, he promised to himself he would find out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a review please?


	16. Chapter Sixteen: Awkward

**Chapter Sixteen: Awkward**

 

 

The hot water on her skin felt marvelous.  

Elsie thought that a morning soak in the bathtub was all she needed that day.

 

She woke up earlier than usual to have a quick bath before starting her day. Sometimes a bath was all you needed to clear your mind.

While she scrubbed her arms and neck she thought of the content of one of his letters she had read after waking up.

 

Still sleepy, she had basked in his words, reading the paper once, twice, thrice, as she used to do.

His letters were a small comfort in her day: they woke her in the morning or they bid her goodnight, depending on when she chose to read them.

And when two days hadn't passed yet before she could read another one, as she had vowed she would do, she would read again the letters she had already opened, and every reading made her notice little things about his way of writing she hadn't noticed before.

It was like reading again a book you've already read hundreds of times but enjoying it all the same, even if you know all the sentences by heart and its words are imprinted on your retina and in your mind.

 

The letter she had read that day, after those interminable two days had passed, was the second to last.

She didn't know what she would do when she finished them. She couldn't continue to read them over again, after all, it would be a bit silly of her.

But then she was probably acting silly whenever she was around him anyway.

 

" _Here everything is chaotic as always. All the staff is very busy and we can barely get a minute's rest. I hope at Downton things are more laid back and easy, even if I know you usually work with your girls on all the chores you can't take care of while the family is at home. But if I can't get some rest_ _,_ _I don't see why you can't."_

She smiled at his remark. Sweet, stubborn man.

Even if he knew perfectly well that at Downton they never got the proper rest they would like to get because of all the work they needed to do while the Crawleys were away, he would still find a subtle way to tell her she needed to get more rest.

 

She felt a pang of remorse thinking that not even ten days before she had thought he didn't care for her at all. In her thoughts he had been an insufferable, egoistic human being, that never felt anything and never cared for anyone besides his precious family.

She bit her lips to suppress another small smile. She knew she was being ridiculous, but she had admitted to herself he had a heart after all, as Beryl had said. She had acknowledged that a long time before.

 

She knew she shouldn't forgive him all the things he had said and done to her in all those years and especially in those last days, but she couldn't help herself. Not when he wrote such lovely letters.

They were full of details about his everyday life in London, written with such an attention she had never witnessed before in his letters. They were much warmer, much more... personal. She couldn't quite explain the sensations they gave her, but she could see something had changed in him.

She only hoped it was for the best.

 

After she had finished washing herself, she slowly got out of the bathtub and started drying herself with a clean towel.

She then dried her hair, that was still dripping wet, as best as she could and she put on her shift and knickers, gathering her things in her arms.

 

When she reached her room, she remembered she had forgotten to do her laundry in the days before and she mentally cursed herself.

She quickly dressed with the only clean dress she owned at the moment, the blue one with a rather low neckline and red decorations around it, that she hadn't put on for at least two years.

Elsie exited her room without even pinning up her hair; she didn't have much time and there were a lot of things to do.

  
She entered the laundry and looked for a bar of soap. After she found it, she grabbed it, put her dirty clothes and knickers to soak in the water and then started scrubbing them one by one with force.

 

*

 

Charles woke earlier than usual that morning.

He had had the most peculiar dream, featuring Elsie, his colleague and friend, in situations that caused him to blush fiercely only thinking about them again.

Though it had been most pleasant, he felt a pang of remorse for having such a dream. He felt as though he was shaming her in a way, even if she would never find out. But after all, he couldn't control his dreams, so it wasn't entirely his fault, was it?

 

He shook his head and got up. He had waken an hour before his usual time, so he decided he had better make an early start.

He dressed himself slowly, taking his time. However, when he checked his pocket watch, only a quarter of an hour had passed.

Charles let out a frustrated sigh and collected his dirty clothes, making his way to the laundry. If he had to find an occupation before his work started, best if he saved his time doing his washing now than later.

 

Entering the room, he discovered someone was already there.

The laundry was poorly lit, except for two little windows on either side of the sink, but from the outline he assumed it was a woman.

 

Elsie had almost finished washing her knickers when she heard the door opening and closing. She didn't turn to see who it was; however when she heard Charles' deep voice greeting her, she stiffened.

 

"Good morning, Mr Carson," she replied, trying to hide her sudden nervousness.

 

He seemed surprised too at hearing her voice; maybe he expected her to be a scullery maid for being up at that hour.

"What is she doing here?" he couldn't help thinking. When he realized she was probably doing her laundry, he felt his face warm up at the thought he was going to wash his own clothes next to her.

"You woke earlier," Charles pointed out after a moment's hesitation.

 

"I did. I wanted to have a bath this morning. What about you?"

 

Charles, who was already blushing red (again!) at the fantasies her sentence had evoked in his mind, blushed even more thinking of why he had woke earlier than usual.

"I couldn't get back to sleep after I woke."

 

"I see."

 

Silence fell over them, interrupted only by her scrubbing her linen and his shuffling feet.

He was fighting the urge to drop his clothes and run away from there.

 

"You can come here, you know?" she said, and he could detect a smile in her voice. "I don't bite."

 

"I know you don't," he replied. "Not always, at least," he concluded, approaching her at the sink.

 

She didn't turn but gave him a sideways warning look at which he responded with a small smile.

She broke her soap bar in two and gave a piece to him.

When Charles took it, she resumed her scrubbing in silence. He could hear her laboured breath while she washed her clothes, and he tried hard not to stare at her knickers perched on the edge of the sink.

 

"What's so interesting?"

 

"Pardon?"

 

"You keep staring at me while I'm scrubbing these old clothes; surely it's not so interesting? I assume you're watching something out of the window."

 

He averted his eyes and focused on passing the bar of soap up and down one of his shirts, to avoid looking at her.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Hughes, I was in my own world for a while."

 

She chuckled softly. "You seemed in your own world indeed."

 

He didn't seem to know what to reply, so she simply resumed her washing, without further inquiring.  

 

They were standing very close to each other, their shoulders almost touching while they scrubbed the dirt away with the same rhythm, their chests rising and falling together.  

 

He wondered if she was reading his letters. "You can always ask her," a voice prompted in his mind.

"I..." he stumbled.

 

She cocked her head on the side, waiting for him to continue while she leaned on the edge of the sink.

The pale light streaming in from the window on her right suddenly lit up her face and he noticed she hadn't pinned up her hair. It was damp and loose, falling down past her shoulders in soft curls and a few ringlets framed her face. Her cheeks were flushed for her efforts and a slight perspiration covered her brow.

 

He looked at her, suddenly at a loss for words.  He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

He had never seen her like that, and he knew he was probably standing open-mouthed in front of her. It was a miracle he wasn't stuttering and blabbering like a fool.

Her voice jerked him out of his reverie.

"Yes, Mr Carson?"

 

"Your hair..."

What was he thinking about not stuttering in front of her? Never mind.

 

"Oh, I forgot to pin it up because I was rather in a hurry. Besides, it'll dry up sooner if I let it loose for a while."

 

He nodded, fighting against the blush that crept up his neck - thank God she couldn't see it.

"Of course."

 

"Heavens, man, just ask her!" he thought.

 

"Mr Carson?" she asked tentatively. "What were you saying?"

 

"Oh? Ah, yes, I... I wondered..."

 

She was still looking at him with her head cocked and a small smile on her face.

Gods, she was so beautiful. 

 

"Nothing important," he responded after a few seconds.

Suddenly feeling awkward, he pretended to check his pocket watch. "It's late, I've got things to do."

 

She looked confused. "But, your clothes..."

 

"Excuse me, Mrs Hughes." His tone was final. 

 

He opened the door to exit the room but her voice interrupted him. "What about that thing you were wondering?"

 

He turned slowly to look at her, standing at the sink with her hands still in the water and a confused look on her face.

"Never mind about it," he mumbled gloomily, before slamming the door after him.

He leaned with his back against the wood, breathing heavily. He had never felt more ashamed of himself.

 

He had sworn he wouldn't think of her in any shaming way and yet there he was, having trouble controllinghis thoughts.

He passed a hand over his face: it was going to be more difficult than he thought.


	17. Chapter Seventeen: A Sweet Incident

**Chapter Seventeen: A Sweet Incident**

 

  
"Daisy, get that pot away from there," ordered Mrs Patmore that same morning.

 

"But, Mrs Patmore, I'm busy over here!"

 

"Just do it, girl, for God's sake!" Beryl yelled back.

 

Mrs Patmore was quite irritable that morning, Charles noticed. However, he passed the kitchen without paying much attention to the exchange between the cook and her helper; he had other things in mind.

 

After that embarrassing moment down in the laundry, Charles thought he would never be able to look at Mrs Hughes the whole day but, as always, things hadn't gone as he planned.

"When do they ever go as I plan, if she is involved as well?" he couldn't help thinking.

She had sat down at the table during breakfast and behaved as nothing  _awkward_  had happened between them.

Her hair was pinned up at least; he didn't think he could bear to see her with her hair down again.

 

She had smiled slightly at him before starting eating her pudding, and even talked serenely to Anna and Mr Bates. How could she even talk  _serenely_ after all that happened?

He thought, almost blushing, that it had probably been embarrassing just for him.

She seemed perfectly at ease having her hair down in front of him. And there was nothing wrong on his part in thinking she was beautiful, was there?

 

Just as he was opening the door of his pantry, he saw her at the end of the corridor. She had her hat pinned on her head and was trying to disentangle her coat from the hall stand. 

 

He had thought of asking her about the letters when they were in the washroom, but he hadn't been able to. Now his inability to speak had struck him again, his throat had got dry and his tongue had twisted. 

"Just ask her!" prompted a voice in his mind.

Did he have the courage to ask her? Was he daring enough?

His head was reeling.

 

"Mrs Hughes!" he called her finally.

 

She turned at the sound of his deep voice. "Yes, Mr Carson?"

 

"I wondered whether you... I mean..."

 

She cocked her head on the side, her expression of curiosity a perfect mirror of the one of a few hours before, waiting patiently for him to continue.

 

He sighed. "May I have a word with you?"

 

"Now?" she asked, surprised.

 

"Yes, if you have time."

 

She bit her lip as she looked at him, "The thing is, Mr Carson, I'm going out at the moment."

 

"Oh, I see."

Well, it was evident enough she was going out now that he thought of it. He cursed his clumsiness and tried to act nonplussed.

"Have a good half day off, then," he replied curtly.

 

She opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out. He had cut her off before she could even say anything, so she simply nodded at him.

"See you later, Mr Carson."

 

*

 

Isobel opened her front door and greeted Elsie with a smile on her face.

"Hello, Elsie." 

 

"Morning, Isobel."

 

"Please, come in."

 

After they were both settled on Mrs Crawley's sofa and Elsie was quietly stirring the tea in her cup, Isobel spoke. "So, how are you doing?"

 

"I'm fine, thank you. What about you?"

 

"I am too," she replied, unsuccessfully trying to hide the smile that curved her lips upwards.

 

"I'm glad for you," said Elsie sincerely. "Doctor Clarkson is a good man."

 

Mrs Crawley smiled wider, focusing her eyes on the carpet. She suddenly felt embarrassed at Elsie's perspicacity, even if her relationship with Richard wasn't a secret to her.

"He is," she responded shyly, in clear contrast with her character.

 

Elsie added a bit of sugar to her tea.

 

"How are things at the Abbey?" Isobel asked, in an awkwardly circumnavigating the point. 

"Same as always."

 

The sound of their tea spoons hitting the porcelain of the cups was deafening in that silence. 

Isobel felt she couldn't hold herself back anymore. "Forgive me for asking but have you... have you made any progress with... Mr Carson?"

 

Elsie looked up from the contents of her cup.

"I did. We did."

 

*

 

Elsie had no wish to return to the Abbey quickly.  Instead, she slowed her steps to a leisurely pace, glancing at flowers and trees, watching birds fly to and fro along the way.  She kicked larger rocks to the side of the gravel path, uncharacteristically, so absentminded was she in her meandering stroll, her mind drifting miles away. 

 

"There's is nothing wrong in trying to make him understand you want more from him," Isobel had said to her.

Elsie had been slightly unnerved at how her friend seemed to read her thoughts and have the courage to say them aloud.

She marveled at how she could comprehend what she wished to have with Charles, and Elsie had even been embarrassed about it.  Surely it wasn't proper for a lady like her - no, a woman like her - to think of having something more with a man, not to mention making the first step for making the relationship progress.

 

She caught sight of the Abbey in the distance and almost instinctively shook her head to clear her mind.

She couldn't possibly do anything to improve what they had, could she?

No, it wasn't in her character. And anyway, she would never have the courage, would she?

 

She entered Downton by the back door. After hanging her coat on the coat stand in her parlour and unpinning her hat, she exited in the corridor.

Since the kitchen was unusually quiet that afternoon, she entered the room, looking for Beryl.

She found her standing near the oven, glancing at the clock on the wall.

 

"All alone?" Elsie asked her.

 

Mrs Patmore turned to face her. "Oh, you've returned I see."

 

"So I have."

 

"I told Daisy and Ivy to have a little break, there's nothing much left to do besides waiting for the cake to cook."

 

Beryl threw a glance at the clock. It marked five.

"Oh, time to get it out of the oven already. Could you do it, Mrs Hughes?" 

 

Seeing the housekeeper's puzzled look,  Mrs Patmore explained, "My back is aching today. I must have slept badly during the night."

 

"You could have stayed in bed."

 

"With all this work to do? Humph!"

"Daisy is perfectly capable of..."

 

"She's not. Not yet anyway. Poor girl, I pestered her all day asking her to lift pots and pans for me."

 

Elsie shook her head. "Let me take that cake out, then. You sit down for a bit."

 

Beryl smiled slightly at her as she bent to open the oven. "Thank you. Take those pot holders, it's hot."

 

Charles looked up from his work papers, hearing some chattering coming from the kitchen.

He had heard Daisy and Ivy going out a few minutes before, and Mrs Patmore was talking with someone, could Elsie be home already?

 

The housekeeper followed her instructions and carefully placed the cake on the table. "What now?"

 

"Take that tray over there, you see? The first shelf from the top."

 

Elsie stretched in order to get it. "I'm not sure I can get it."

 

"Take this stool here," suggested Beryl.

 

"No, I can do it, I'm just within an inch of it," Elsie stood on her tiptoes and stretched more.   

"Be careful, please."

 

Yes, it was definitely Mrs Hughes, he thought. He stood up and neared the kitchen, wishing to talk with her. He had failed in the morning and a few hours before, he would be damned if he failed again. He had just to inquire about a few letters, for God's sake.

 

When he got to the kitchen, he opened his mouth to speak but quickly closed it, swallowing.

Elsie was standing on her tiptoes, reaching out for something on the shelf, her skirt clawing up her legs and showing her dark stockings, the fabric of her dress tightening against her backside because of her leaning against the counter. 

 

Her hand was near it, so very near. "I'm almost there," Mrs Hughes panted, stretching even more and standing on one foot only, trying to balance herself with the other leg in the air.

She reached it with her middle finger and tried unsuccessfully to draw the wooden tray to herself. She grunted in frustration and pushed away a curl on her forehead.

 

"Elsie, do take that stool," piped in Beryl from the chair.

 

"Nonsense, I've almost got  it," she announced in a ragged breath, succeeding in drawing it to herself a bit.

 

"But..."

 

"Here. It. Is," puffed Elsie with annoyance, giving the tray a final nudge.

It fell down off the shelf and Mrs Hughes reached out for it, losing her balance in the attempt of avoiding its fall. The tray fell onto the floor with a deafening crash, wooden splinters darted everywhere. 

 

"Elsie!" exclaimed a man's voice.

She wondered for a fleeting moment if Charles was there.

 

She shrieked and fell backwards, hitting a warm and sturdy presence.

He grabbed her by the shoulders, supporting her, and Elsie smelt a vague scent of Cologne. Yes, it was definitely him.

Charles tightened his grip on her and took a step back to balance them both.

She instinctively leaned back on his chest and felt his big hands slide gently to her elbows.

 

"Are you alright?" she felt his voice rumble in his chest.

 

She turned slightly to face him, her shoulder brushing across his chest.

"I am, Charles." 

 

Her speaking his name for the first time was nearly his undoing. He wasn't used to that and probably would never be.

He felt himself blush beet red.

 

Beryl smirked. They were completely oblivious to her presence.

 

She smiled at him coyly. "Thank you."

 

"Please, do be more careful next time," he murmured gruffly.

 

Beryl cleared her throat. They both jolted as if woken from a daydream, then sprang apart.

 

"I'm sorry, Mrs Patmore. Your wooden tray is now broken."

 

"Not to worry, Mrs Hughes, I have plenty of them. The important thing is you've not hurt yourself."

 

"I didn't."

 

"Very well then. Mr Carson, could you please take the other wooden tray? It's next to where the broken one was."  

 

He took it without problems. Beryl stood up to receive it.

"Thank you, Mr Carson."

 

"Mrs Patmore, there's no need..." Elsie tried to stop her.

 

"Oh, shush you. I am capable of putting that cake on the tray. Now off with you both."

 

They obeyed without saying a word and exited the kitchen.

"Mr Carson... Charles?" she called him.

He turned his head to look at her.

 

"How about a glass of wine in my parlour tonight?"

 

"Of course, Mrs... Elsie," he replied, stumbling on his words. He was unsure what to call her, and he was still feeling awkward about the events of the morning - added to the present one.

 

She smiled at him, then turned on her heels and closed her parlour door after her, leaving him in the hallway more besotted than ever.

 


	18. Chapter Eighteen: A Question

**Chapter Eighteen: A Question**

 

 

 

She quietly sipped her wine, watching him intently over the rim of her glass.

He was pouring the red liquid into his, and Elsie observed, fascinated, how his big hands moved in an expert and graceful way, preventing spare drops from sliding down the bottle with a rapid twist of his wrist.

His long and slender fingers curled around the glass as he put the bottle down on the tray, his nails well-trimmed, his veins and tendons emerging and vanishing under the slightly wrinkled skin as he moved his hands

 

He saw from the corner of his eye that she was looking at him attentively, from eye to toe, almost taking his measurements with her blue eyes.

"It has been quite a tiring week, hasn't it?" he demanded, trying to ease the atmosphere that weighed on them.

 

Heavens, they had barely spent five minutes together in the same room, and he was already suffocating. He brought his hand to his collar instinctively, trying to loosen it.

Her presence was intoxicating; she filled his senses completely.

 

"It has," came the reply in her Scottish accent. Charles thought she was probably too tired to control it and, if he must admit it, he didn't mind at all her speaking to him that way.

 

He slightly hitched up his trousers in order to sit down.

 

"Not to mention we have another five guests at dinner tomorrow and they'll probably stay for the night," she added, sighing.

He nodded in agreement.

 

Sometimes he wondered if he was getting too old for his job, if  _they_  were getting too old for their jobs. Not that she was incapable of working as she once did - she was more energetic and vigorous than most of her maids, and she was probably more vigorous than  _him -_ but he saw the tiredness that underlined her eyes.

She was tired, but not because of the work. She was tired of being a servant; she was tired of grand balls and fancy dinners; she was tired of all those lords and ladies that crowded the house... she had never been in her true habitat, not at Downton.

She had never bonded much to the family; she had never cared for them as he did; she had never let herself get too much involved in their problems. She was simply one of their employees, nothing less, nothing more.

Charles instead had become an integral part of the Abbey. It rested on his shoulders as the world rested on Atlas' shoulders, and it was part of him as much as he was part of it.  

 

However, in those months something had changed. She had changed, he had changed, they had changed... and a silly thought crossed his mind.

Would she ever retire with him, if he asked her to?

He shook his head.

 

He wondered whether he was too old to nourish such feelings for her.

Was it proper for a man his age to feel something for a woman? Wasn't he a bit too old for romance and wooing?

Except that he wouldn't describe what he wanted from her as a simple romance and courting.

No, what he felt for Elsie was deeply rooted; it had grown silently during the years, so silently that he hadn't even realized what was happening until he was well into it.

Once he had discovered what he felt, the shock had been so great he tried in all the possible ways to hide it. He had done a great job in concealing it, but now that he felt ready to go on, now that he sensed the time was ripe for something more, he was failing.

His sentiments were so much rooted inside him he was having a hard time in speaking his mind to her - good Lord, he couldn't even ask her about his letters!

He assumed she must have finished reading them by now, and he had tried in vain to inquire about them all day.

However, now that they were alone, at the end of that tiring day, he felt he could do it.

He could ask her. He must.

 

Only then Charles noticed she was speaking freely and he tried to do his best in keeping up with her speech, nodding in agreement at whatever she was saying.

Elsie had probably noticed his temporary alienation, for she bit back a knowing smile.

He almost raised his hands in defeat, giving up in trying to understand how she could do that, how she could read his mind without him knowing.

 

"You are quite silent tonight, Mr Carson. No footman you want to ramble about?" She was back on calling him by his last name. He didn't know if she was doing it because she was mocking him, but he did know it irked him.

 

"I'm sorry, Mrs Hughes. My mind was elsewhere."

 

"Surely you're not already thinking of all the things we have to do tomorrow?"

 

He sighed, "No, I'm not."

That was it. He only had to pop up the question casually. "Actually I was wondering if..."

 

A knock on the door interrupted him. When she turned to answer it he rolled his eyes to the ceiling.  _Not again_.

It was a maid, asking Elsie if she could talk to her for a moment.

Charles rose from his chair, obviously ready to leave, but she stopped him by raising her hand and telling him to stay put, while she dealt with the problem as quickly as she could.

 

He sat back on the chair, passing a hand over his face. It was as if some great force of nature was making fun of him, luring him into taking action and then cruelly teasing him.

He despised himself for being weak, for he knew he wasn't. He had never been a weak one.

 

Elsie returned fifteen minutes later. He had drunk already three glasses of wine and annoyance was boiling up inside him.

"Here I am, I'm sorry but she had problems of... a personal nature."

 

He didn't reply and stared at the empty glass he kept in his hand.

 

"What were you saying?" she asked.

 

"Nothing, Mrs Hughes," he replied in a low and bitter tone. "Nothing."

 

"But..." she retorted, confused.

 

"I'm afraid I'm feeling a bit tired. If you'll excuse me, I'm going up to bed."

 

Elsie opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out. She swallowed and finally said: "Of course, Mr Carson. Goodnight."

 

He was already at the door and didn't turn to face her. "Goodnight, Mrs Hughes."

 

 

*

 

 

When Charles woke the morning after, he felt bad for how he had behaved the previous night. 

 

It hadn't been Elsie's fault, and he knew it. She was a good and kind woman, always putting others before herself. She loved her maids and had their best interests at heart.

That was why he decided to try to speak to her first thing in the morning, before she started her work: that way they wouldn't be interrupted.

 

He descended the stairs swiftly and found her in the corridor.

"Good morning, Mrs Hughes."

 

"Good morning, Mr Carson. I hope you slept well."

 

"I did," he lied. "Thank you."

 

She smiled slightly at him and opened her parlour door. "Mrs Hughes, may I ask you something?"

 

"Of course."

 

He took a pregnant pause."Have you... "

 

"Mrs Hughes!" Anna's voice resounded in the hallway.

 

She rolled her eyes jokingly at him, pretending to be exasperated, then turned and began to speak with the younger woman.

 

Charles resigned himself and went to the servants' hall. After all, there was always something very foreign in having high spirits at breakfast.

 

 

*

 

 

What was his undoing happened shortly after breakfast.

He had managed to stop Elsie before she could disappear from the servants' hall, although before he could even say what he wanted, another maid interrupted them.

That was the last straw. "Oh, for goodness's sake!" he burst out, exasperated.  

 

She turned to face him, wearing a shocked expression on her face. "Mr Carson..."

 

He inhaled sharply, raising a hand as if to keep himself from saying anything he might regret later. "Just keep on doing whatever you were doing," he mumbled before storming off to his pantry.

 

Mrs Hughes appeared at his door a few minutes later. She entered determinedly, closing the door after her and fixing him with a glare.

"What  _on earth_  is wrong with you?"

 

Charles lifted his head from the papers he was unsuccessfully trying to work on. "What?" he asked rudely, taken aback by her reaction. 

 

"I was talking with a maid who needed my instructions to get on with her work, Mr Carson. Couldn't you wait a minute?"

 

He rose from his chair, outraged. "No, I could not," he retorted stubbornly.

 

"Well then, I'm sorry I haven't paid attention to you, Mr Carson!"

 

"Are you mocking me?"

 

"No, I'm not! I just don't understand why you're mad at me!"

 

"I'm not mad at you, I'm mad at whomever interrupts me while I'm trying to ask you if you've read my letters! " he finally blurted out.

There, he had said it.

 

Charles watched as a myriad of emotions played on Elsie's face: hurt, annoyance and exasperation quickly turned into surprise and her expression gradually softened.

 

"Of course I read them, you silly man," she said softly, nearing him.

 

"All of them?" he demanded, looking at her as if he was a lost puppy.

 

"All of them. And I liked them very much," she said, remembering the words of his last letter.

 

He realized he had been holding his breath until now. He let it all out.

"I'm glad," he murmured, in a tone as low as his booming voice could allow.

 

Silence fell between them. They were so close each could hear the other breathe silently.

He wanted so badly to reach out to her, touch her hair and caress her face... but he couldn't.

Something was keeping him from doing that, the old restraint that had saved him so many times from spilling out all the truth about his feelings for her was now what prevented him to welcome her in his arms.

 

He was so wrapped up in his own mind that when she stood up on her tiptoes and reached out to him, cupping his cheek before kissing it softly, he hadn't been expecting it.

His eyes widened in surprise, his ears colouring beet red and his mouth hanging open.

 

"Thank you," she whispered in a thick Scottish lilt.  

Charles understood that she had the upper hand between them, she who had always been more innovative than him, more daring and open to changes.

He understood he would never be able to tell her he loved her in the face, not so openly.

However, there were other ways to express his love for her, weren't there? And Charles had always been good at writing letters.


	19. Chapter Nineteen: A Letter

**Chapter Nineteen: A Letter**

 

 

A few days had passed since their conversation in her parlour and Elsie still smiled at the thought.

That man would be her death, only he could get so flustered and make such a fuss over a stack of letters!

 

She had finished reading his fifth letter, barely containing her smile.

Elsie could imagine him writing to her at night, closed in his pantry in London, his large hands gripping his tiny fountain pen, his forehead creased in concentration. 

His last letter had been wonderful, so intimate she felt she could touch him through his words.

He hadn't spoken of anything different than the events of the Season, but he had described them in a familiar tone, as if he was writing to...

 

She swallowed and her subconscious completed the sentence for her.

_... his wife._

She blushed as if she had spoken her thoughts aloud in front of him and fumbled clumsily with her keys.

Elsie finally opened the door of her parlour and switched on the light. She neared her desk and saw it. There was a letter on top of her ledger.

 

The envelope had no address and  no stamp.

"How curious," she murmured to herself.

She opened it with a bit of hesitance and started to read.

 

 

**_.  .  ._ **

 

 

Charles stared at the emptiness in front of him.

A myriad of thoughts were swirling in his mind, so fast he couldn't keep track of what he was thinking.

He glanced at the sheet of paper placed on his desk and absentmindedly stroked the paper with his forefinger.

 

Should he write to her again?

Had he enough courage to open his heart and pour all his emotions on the paper for her to read?

Charles inhaled deeply with his nose, letting the oxygen pass from his mouth to his head, as if he was smoking, and then exhaling loudly through his mouth.

 

He imagined how she would smile after seeing his written words and how her cheeks would probably redden after reading his confession.

In his mind she would look beautiful. In reality he knew she would surely be even better.

 

He grabbed  the pen and started writing.  

Yes, he could do it.

 

**_.  .  ._ **

 

 

Elsie gasped, recognizing his handwriting.

Charles had written to her. Again.

 

" _Dear Mrs Hughes,_

_In case you are wondering whether I wrote this letter during the Season and I didn't give it to you with the others, I am afraid I must disappoint you._

_I wrote it yesterday night, on an impetus which I hope you will be able to forgive"._

**_.  .  ._ **

"Forgive but not forget," Charles thought, pausing his writing for a while.

This was going to be a huge move forward. Probably the hugest of his life.

There was no going back, only going on. With or without her.

He felt he would never be able to do it.

 

He felt he could never bear the look of contempt and repugnance on her face. No, he corrected himself almost instantly, she would never look at him in such a way. She was far too kind for that.

She would turn him down gently as she had done with Joe Burns. Twice.

But that was exactly the point. He couldn't bear her rejection.

 

Like an expert strategist, he had to plan his moves carefully.

 

 

**_.  .  ._ **

 

_"As you may have noticed, I am no orator, nor am I at ease in speaking my own mind in situations like this one._

_The thing is, I meant to..."_

Elsie read quickly until the end of the paper, almost without breathing. After finishing reading his letter, she took deep breaths, trying to steady the rhythm of her own heart, which was fluttering in her chest like the wings of  a hummingbird.

 

"Of course I would," she thought, responding to his written query.

 

She carefully folded the paper and hid it in her bottom drawer, then she sat down in an attempt to calm herself.

Was it the same Charles Carson she knew? He would never do such a thing.

Or maybe it was exactly in his character to do such a thing. He was no orator, that was sure, although sometimes he came up with verses no poet ever would.

Elsie had come to know him quite well in the years, and she knew he was a quiet, shy and reserved person. What had possessed him to ask her something like that?

Not that it wasn't proper or anything else but... they had never gone that far.

 

What was the point in his question? What was his intention?

"Of course I would," she repeated again in her mind, biting her lip to keep herself from smiling.

 

She stood up again and exited her parlour. If she had to sort this thing out, better do it as soon as possible.

 

 

**_.  .  ._ **

****

 

He heard a knock on his door, followed shortly by her head appearing from the hallway.

"Mr Carson, may I speak to you?  Or are you busy at the moment?" she asked softly.

 

He raised his head and looked at her. "Not at all, Mrs Hughes. Please, do come in."

 

Elsie crossed the threshold and closed the door after her, leaning for a while against the wood.

A few seconds passed before they decided to speak.

 

"I came to..."

 

"What do you...?"

 

They both stopped midsentence and smiled awkwardly at each other. He motioned for her to go first.

 

"I've just received a letter," she confessed.

 

"Did you?" he feigned ignorance.

 

"I found it on my desk, a few minutes ago. The content was very... considerate," she spoke in a low tone.

 

"What did it say, if I may ask?"

 

She almost rolled her eyes at him. Was he determined on making her blush or what? Wasn't the situation already embarrassing as it was?

She lowered her eyes to avoid looking at him.

"Well," she thought. "Two can play this game".

 

" _The thing is, I meant to ask you if you would like to accompany me to the village on our next half day. I would be glad if you accepted."_

His words still rang in her mind.

 

"Oh, nothing much, really," she finally answered. "The Butler asked me if I would be willing to go with him into town on our next half day off."

She paused and waited for his reaction, but he maintained his poker face.

"The problem is, we don't usually have days off on the same day of the week." 

 

"I'm sure you could reach a compromise with him, Mrs Hughes, now that we are slowing down on the work side for at least a week."

 

She bit the inside of her cheek. "Yes, I suppose we should."

 

"I could talk to him if you want. Put in a good word for you."

 

Elsie shuffled her feet. She couldn't believe they were actually doing this. "I would be grateful for that, Mr Carson."

 

"Well then, it's settled. Which day do you think...?" he stopped before he could slip in a "we" and give himself away.

 

"How about next Wednesday? There's no wine delivery and the groceries arrive on Monday so it should be fine."

 

"Alright. I'm going to talk to him as soon as I can."

 

"Thank you, Mr Carson."

 

"My pleasure, Mrs Hughes," he said with a kind smile that reached his eyes and make them twinkle perceptibly.

 

She reopened the door and went out of his pantry, shaking her head slightly and smiling tenderly.

That man would surely be her death.

 

 

**_.  .  ._ **

 

 

Charles sat down on his chair and sighed deeply. He hadn't had the nerve in the end.

He hadn't had the courage to tell her he loved her.

In a way it didn't seem proper declaring his feelings in a letter, left on her ledger in the morning nonetheless, as if they were children.

She deserved better and he could do better.

One step at a time.


	20. Chapter Twenty: Anticipation

**Chapter Twenty: Anticipation**

 

 

Richard wrinkled his nose in his sleep, his whiskers twitching.

He sneezed loudly soon after, waking suddenly.

He opened looked around the room, immediately noticing he wasn't in his own bedroom; he squinted his eyes at the light, confused.

 

Richard then felt someone stir next to him and his eyes travelled down his own body, settling on the feminine form sleeping on his chest.

Isobel opened one eye and smiled at him, instantly wincing when she attempted to move.

 

"What happened?" he asked, alarmed.

 

"I fell asleep with my corset on," she replied groggily. "What an idiot I am."

 

Only then he realized where he was and, more importantly, why Isobel had been resting on his chest.

They were lying on her settee in the drawing room: his head on the armrest, his arms encircling her body.

He noticed they were still dressed as they had been the night before, both his waistcoat and jacket were wrinkled and his hair was probably tousled.

 

She tried to move but a pang of pain shot from her neck down to her spine, making her curse under her breath.

Richard laughed, amused at her explicit language, but he regretted it when his own neck started to hurt. It was Isobel's turn to laugh. What a pair they made.

 

Isobel got up slowly, looking down at him with a grimace on her face, her hair completely messy and escaping from her pins.

"I think we fell asleep after dinner last night. It must have been the wine."

He mumbled in agreement as she tried to adjust her hair, patting it down.

 

Richard chuckled, "There's no need for you to look perfect in my presence, I can assure you."

 

She stopped fussing abruptly, her fingers still tangled awkwardly in her hair, and blushed profusely.

"What must you think of me, falling asleep on your chest like that," she apologized, clasping her hands in her lap.

 

He sat up with difficulty and gazed at her fondly. "I hope you don't mind my saying this, but I rather liked our...  _sleeping arrangements_."

 

"I can't say I'm not pleased," she admitted honestly, forcing herself to bear his steady look and not avert her eyes in shyness.

 

"Neither can I," he whispered, before tentatively pressing his lips to hers in a gentle morning kiss.

 

She locked her arms around his neck and drew herself closer to him, one of his hands settling gently on her hip. He was cradling her head with the other, his fingers threading through her hair.

She teased his lower lip with her teeth, slowly leading him to lose it all.

He slid one arm around her waist, pressing her flush against him, and his tongue gently asked for permission to enter her mouth. She granted it hesitantly, moaning at the feeling of him.

 

Isobel broke their kiss after a while, breathing heavily and staring at him wide eyed, taken aback by how things had heated up quickly. He certainly had been eager, and she certainly had been wanton.

 

"I'm sorry," Richard stumbled uncomfortably, standing up as if to go away.

 

"Please, don't apologize," she begged, tugging at his hand to make him sit next to her again.

Richard sat on the edge of the settee, hands in his lap, sheepishly avoiding looking at her.

"You simply... surprised me, that's all," she admitted with a small smile.

 

She reached out to touch his hand, trying to ease his discomfort.

"Don't worry. It's fine, truly. I haven't been around a man for... a while," she confessed, progressively lowering her voice until it was barely a whisper.

Her cheeks turned a slight shade of pink, and his face opened in a genuine smile.

 

He raised her hand to his lips, mastering the courage to look at her after the words she had just uttered. Richard then kissed it softly, his eyes never leaving hers.

She shivered under his pointed gaze, as if icy fingers were ghosting along her spine.

 

"Do you want some breakfast?" she burst out stupidly, not knowing what to do or say, completely flustered by his attentions.

 

"That's kind of you, but I don't think it's a very good idea."

 

"Why not?"

 

"Molesley is here, and it will be a miracle if I manage to slip out unnoticed."

 

She chuckled. "Molesley can think what he wants, I don't care."

 

"Oh, I think you will care, if you give him a stroke when he sees us together," he argued.

 

"Well, it's not as if he is going to catch us in the act," she rebuked a bit sharply, blushing crimson as the realization of what she had said dawned on her.

 

He averted his eyes again, trying to banish improper thoughts and erase images that had suddenly formed in his mind.

At a loss of what to do, he glanced despairingly at the grandfather clock on his left.

 

"It's time for me to go," he stated quietly. "I need to start my morning rounds."

 

This seemed to get along with her better than his previous excuse: she rose with him and reached out to adjust his bow tie, her fingers lingering on his neck as she tried to straighten his collar.

She then attempted to smooth out the wrinkles on his shirt, her hands ghosting over his chest, making him tremble.

 

He cleared his throat, and she instantly stepped back, embarrassed for fussing over him like she was his...

She swallowed again. The word "wife" echoed in her head, completing her mental sentence.

 

"You'd better go or you'll be late," she whispered.

 

He nodded and kissed the corner of her mouth, before leaving her behind in the drawing room, a silly smile on her face.

 

 

**_.  .  ._ **

 

"We are going out on Wednesday."

Elsie dropped the bomb casually, as if she was talking about the weather, while stirring her tea. 

A deafening silence replied to her statement, and Elsie carefully raised her head to search her friend's face for a sign of realization, for an expression of stupor, of excitement.

Was she as thrilled as she was?

 

Saying Mrs Patmore was astonished would have been an understatement.

Her brown eyes were wide as saucers, and she barely mastered the strength to hold her own cup in her hands.

 

"You what?" she uttered foolishly, mouth hanging open.

 

Mrs Hughes resumed her quiet stirring of the amber liquid, bringing the cup to her lips to sip.

 

Beryl was following her every movement with her eyes.

"You can't simply throw the stone and hide your hand," she stated crisply.

 

Elsie made eye contact with the cook and nodded,  swallowing the tea and putting her cup back on the plate she was holding in her other hand.

"You're right. Anyway, there's nothing in particular for you to know."

 

The other woman understood Elsie didn't want to be questioned on the subject, and she respected her wish, as much as she was dying to know every detail.

"You can't expect to get away with just that, missy," Mrs Patmore mock scolded.

 

"Well he... he just asked me out, that's all."

 

"Did he?" Beryl asked rhetorically, raising her eyebrows.

 

Elsie didn't answer, limiting herself to sipping from her cup silently.

 

"The old bear emerged from his hibernation after all," the other woman commented wryly.

"Might be he's looking for a she-bear to warm his heart with," she added after a theatrical pause. 

 

Elsie's tea got in the wrong way and the housekeeper started spluttering and coughing.

"Now now, Mrs Patmore, not quite as that!" she exclaimed in a strained voice, looking positively shocked.

 

"He has always had his she-bear in front of him if you ask me," Beryl retorted kindly.

 

"Can we quit talking about bears, please?" Elsie suggested almost pleadingly.

 

Beryl looked at her friend over the rim of her cup, gulping down a bit of tea.

"You're right. You're more like a she-dragon!" 

 

If someone else had said that, Elsie would have put them in her place; she hated that nickname.

However, there was such a grade of intimacy between her and Mrs Patmore since her cancer scare that she didn't mind her playful and teasing banter.

 

She knew her friend was genuinely glad for her, so she limited herself to rolling her eyes at the ceiling and laughing good-heartedly at Beryl's joke, silently relishing in the anticipation of days to come.

 

 

**_.  .  ._ **

 

Wednesday arrived before one could say "a".

Charles had been on the edge all day, jumping at the slightest noise, his mind wandering to the most improper places when he should have focused on the Crawleys' breakfast and responding efficiently to their requests.

 

He was annoyed with himself, he realized as he descended the stairs to his pantry.

This surprised him, never in his life had he felt annoyed with his own person. Maybe only when he decided to leave the stage because of Grigg escaping with the money, but then it was only partly his fault if he had felt like an idiot.

 

Charles had always considered himself a man of honor and rigor, even in his years of stupidity his behaviour had always been in contrast with Grigg's - he had never let anything get in his way when it came to work, he had never let anything prevent him from doing his job properly, and it was a trait of himself he greatly admired.

 

His determination and dedication had brought him a long way, never failing him: he had come from being a simple entertainer to one of the best butlers in all England and he couldn't feel any prouder.

 

But when it came to her, God knew, he risked to lose all he had gained in life, to destroy all he had built.

 

She had a power in her, to bend him to her every wish. He didn't know how but he had been transformed.

He had fought so hard in the previous years to convince himself he didn't feel anything for her except for a friendly admiration. Eventually he had come to terms with the fact that he loved her and, after all that had passed in that year, it seemed that he had changed permanently into a soft-hearted man, incapable of holding his ground and making others respect him.

 

Well, all the others respected him. She did  _not_.

She was always telling him what to do or not to do, what he had done wrong and what he could do to make things right. What was worse was that he couldn't help but seeking her advice and wise counsel.

Elsie was his support. If he was Atlas, sustaining Downton Abbey, she was Atlas' support. The ground beneath his feet, warm and welcoming.

 

There was a part of him that didn't mind at all this change.

He loved spending time with her, hearing her talk, smiling at her gags. He was thrilled that in less than an hour they would go out together.

However, his other half feared changes as he feared the innovations brought by the time they lived in.

He feared this new thing they had between them as he feared her toaster, for he couldn't label it yet.

He feared  the man he would become under her gentle guidance as he feared Daisy's mixer.

He feared the sewing machine as he feared the possible implications and progression of their  _understanding_.

 

Charles adjusted his livery and sighed. He must be strong.

Whatever was coming he would face it courageously, for he didn't like being a coward, and he didn't fear being brave. 


	21. Chapter Twenty - One: An Uncertainty

**Chapter Twenty One: An Uncertainty**

 

 

Charles cleared his throat when Lord Grantham was finally left alone at the table during breakfast.

 

"What is it, Carson?", his employer demanded, not raising his eyes from the article he was reading.

 

"I had the intention of taking a half day off today, m'lord," he began carefully. "I hope it is agreeable to you."

 

There was a moment of silence, in which Robert considered his butler's request carefully.

"Of course it is," Robert replied after a moment of silence, only partially listening to his butler.

 

"I'll leave Mr Barrow in charge, he's perfectly capable of serving tea and ringing the dressing gong. I'll return in time for dinner," Charles continued the explanation of his plans.

 

"I see no reason why you shouldn't take the evening off as well," the other man suggested.

 

Carson widened his eyes in stupor. "Milord, what about dinner?"

 

"Barrow is under butler now, isn't he? I suppose you've trained him properly?"

 

"Of course, m'lord," Charles replied, puffing out his chest proudly.

 

"Well then, all is settled."

Lord Grantham finally raised his eyes from the newspaper. "You've worked hard in this Season, Carson. I had promised you an half day off and here it is. You're free from this afternoon after lunch till tomorrow."

 

Robert was going to make a joke, recommending him not to return too late, since he would have to be up and about the morning after, but he bit his tongue, not wanting to embarrass him by questioning his professionalism.

 

Carson had always been dedicated to his work, even to the point of exhaustion.

He had always been a constant in Robert's life, years before Cora became his wife.

He had seen his marriage, the birth of his three daughters (one of whom he had mourned with them), had seen all of them get married (almost) and the birth of his two grandchildren.

To patronize him, a man of integrity and honor, would be too much.

 

Carson cleared his throat, clearly ill at ease. "Very well, m'lord. As you wish."

He didn't even know how he was going to do until late at night, or tomorrow morning.

He supposed his... outing with Mrs Hughes wouldn't last long.

"Certainly not all night," he thought. "That wouldn't be proper".

Not that they had many places to go to after midnight, anyway.

 

 

**_.  .  ._ **

 

 

Elsie finished buttoning her blouse, looking at herself in the mirror.

Her face couldn't stop smiling; despite her trying to quiet the frantic beating of her heart and to suffocate the excitement of the butterflies in her stomach, her body wouldn't cooperate.

 

She shook her head at her own silliness: it was just a friendly outing with a man, it was not as if she hadn't experienced that before - it had happened with Joe, twice... a long time ago though.

She sighed and moved her hands to her head, rapidly freeing her hair from the pins that confined it and adjusting it in a softer way.

She wondered if he would notice her change in hairstyle: it made her look younger, the lineaments of her face appeared less sharp.

 

Her reflection in the mirror seemed to glance back at her, smirking.

Elsie blinked once, twice, thinking she might be seeing things... but it was still there, staring back into the blue of her eyes in an arrogant manner.

Suddenly she saw herself differently.   She didn't seem any younger, but much older.

Her face was gaunt, her cheeks pale and hollow, her wrinkles a mark of the passing of the years.

Her new hairstyle only emphasized the white and grey streaks in her once chestnut hair, her blue eyes appeared milky, vacuous.

She saw herself for what she really was: an old woman.

She was old and decadent, she shouldn't waste her time in such frivolities and trivialities.

 

Mr Carson was only going out with her as a friend.

Why hadn't he done the same during the previous years? They had always been close after all.

Maybe he was thinking about retirement, maybe he was looking for a woman to marry, for companionship.

 

She suited the role, really. They had known each other for years, they had worked together for a long time, in perfect synchronization, as if she could read his mind and he could read hers.

They would work nicely in their new house as well, she knew. They had been captains of the ship that was Downton Abbey for years,  things would run even more smoothly in a much smaller house.

 

She tore her eyes away from the mirror. What were they after all, if not butler and housekeeper, perfectly trained machines with no heart but only gears?

They didn't need love and affection to work, in fact they worked much better without any personal involvement.

They both lived on property and professionalism - they were inflexible, hard as steel and resistant as iron.

They weren't humans but mere shells of flesh and bone, with an heart of steel gears.

 

The impertinent smile of her ghost in the mirror told her just that: she had nourished false hopes that would crumble down like a house built on sand, fragile and inconsistent.

And she, _they_ , would never succeed in building their house on solid stone.

 

She shook her head once again, trying to free her mind from the grip of those obnoxious thoughts.

There was no reason to ruin a nice day with him. She should be content with what she had.

A simple day spent with him at her side would be enough. Or at least that was what she tried to convince herself of.

 

 

**_.  .  ._ **

 

Charles paced restlessly back and forth in his pantry.

It was almost three in the afternoon and Mrs Hughes hadn't come downstairs yet.

He was very much near panicking, but he was trying with all his might not to lose it all.

He was already dressed in his grey tweed suit, that she had once complimented him for wearing while they were heading to church a few weeks before.

She had been gazing at him for longer than necessary that day, when she had realized he was staring back at her, she had merely hid a smile and confessed in an nonchalant and unwavering voice - although not glancing at him in the eyes, but straight ahead of her - that the suit made him look really smart.

 

His temporary smile was soon replaced by an anguished expression; he felt as though a mailed fist had punched him in the gut and as if the soles of his shoes were on fire - he couldn't stop pacing, he probably would wear a path across the floor.

 

His big hands were holding the rim of his bowler hat, he felt his palms sweating.

He needed to stop worrying like this: he wasn't seventeen anymore for God's sake, there was no need to act as though it was his first date - _outing_ , he corrected himself - with a... friend.

 

There had been other occasions where he had gone out with a woman: those were other times, other places. He was no more than a barely grown up lad, strolling around with his favourite girl on the arm.

He still remembered her face - not clearly, of course, more that thirty years had passed - however he remembered the spark in her youthful brown eyes, the smell of her hair, the dimples in her cheeks when she smiled at him.

Yes, Alice Neal had indeed been a very pretty girl, there was no denying... but he knew that she was nothing but a ghost from his past.

 

 _She_ had made him see that, unbeknownst to her own self. Her kindness had shown him the way, had led him on, as always.

If she hadn't encouraged him to let his wounds heal he probably would have continued pining away for a young woman who had rejected him for what was Charles' best friend ages before.

She had made him confront with his troubled past, that he had tried so hard to hide behind perfectly polished silver and a stern and unreachable façade.

Elsie (was she Elsie to him now?) had reached for him through the thick, invisible wall between them, she had almost bought it down - and there she was, ready to fight her way to his heart with nails and teeth.

Not that she was aware of all of that, of course.

She was able to entice him with her mere presence, he was inevitably drawn to her by a mighty, inconsistent force, like bodies were drawn to earth by gravity.

She was... he still didn't know how to put it into words, but she definitely meant _something_ to him.

 

A part of him wanted to loosen up, open himself to her. The other instead feared the change too much for good. It had been his inner struggle for years, it pushed him towards her and at the same time it kept him from growing closer with her.

It was slowly wearing him out.

 

Charles couldn't bear to lose her: he had almost lost her to cancer and to Joe Burns, but he had been too shallow and proud to admit that he somehow needed the presence of this woman in his life.

He was nothing more than a fearful little man, too ashamed and coward to take a step further into his relationship with Elsie Hughes, too proud and stubborn to utter a simple "I need you".

 

He couldn't feel more foolish for fearing she would cancel their outing at the last minute.

"Come on, old man, get a grip," he scolded himself under his breath.

 

"Get a grip on what?" came a feminine voice, one he knew all too well, from the doorway.

 

He turned on his heels, his face bright red, his hair ruffled and his hands sweaty, to behold her lovely figure standing at the entrance of his pantry, smiling slightly at him.

 

Charles didn't know if it was the slightly warmer temperature of the day, the frustrating beating of his heart or the fact that he had been daydreaming about her and his own past for at least half an hour, but of one thing he was certain: Elsie Hughes had never looked lovelier as she did in that moment.

 

 

 


	22. Chapter Twenty - Two: A date, almost

**Chapter Twenty - Two: A Date, almost**

 

 

Charles opened his mouth as if to say something, but quickly closed it. He probably looked like a fool, rooted to the spot, his mouth hanging open, his eyes wide and madman-like.

Elsie frowned at him, slightly confused. "Do I have dirt on my face, Mr Carson?" she asked innocently, bringing a hand to her cheek.

 

He stared at her, bewildered. "What?" he replied rudely, suddenly jerked out of his daydream.

She seemed taken aback by his response and he hastily excused himself, "Pray forgive me, Mrs Hughes. I was just woolgathering, I suppose."

He nervously passed a hand in his hair, forgetting that he had, as usual, slicked it back with pomade.

He groaned in displeasure when his hand came in contact with the remains of what he had put on his hair in the morning and searched frantically for his handkerchief.

 

Mrs Hughes looked at him, amused all the while.

He wiped his hands at his best and sighed while putting the handkerchief back into one of his pockets.

Noticing she was still observing him, he asked her what was wrong.

She bit her lip slightly, "Your hair is ruffled."

 

He automatically brought his hand to his head,  patting his hair down with a displeased expression.

She smiled a little, "You missed a spot - there," she pointed on her own head, so he could mimic her movements like she was his own reflection in the mirror - only she was a more petite and feminine reflection of himself.

 

"Will I do?" he inquired, after trying to tidy his hair.

 

She chuckled lightly, nearing him. "May I?" she asked tentatively, biting her lip again.

 

He stared wordlessly at her before nodding slowly.

She stood on her tiptoes to fix an unruly strand of hair and put her other hand on his shoulder to brace herself.

"There you are," she announced finally.

Her eyes found his. The mere fact he was looking at her so blissfully unaware of the intensity of his gaze made her blush even more.

Suddenly realizing she was too near him for comfort, she stepped back, lowering her eyes.

 

He cleared his throat. "Well then. Are we ready?"

 

"We are."

 

"May I ask you where we are going?"

 

He hid a smile. "That's... a surprise. But I suppose you'll guess soon enough."

 

"I don't think it'll be very difficult to guess; there aren't many places we can go to that enable us to return home in time for dinner."

Mr Carson looked uncomfortably, "Actually..."

 

"Yes?"

 

"I spoke with His Lordship today and he told me he can do without my services for this evening, so I can return to the Abbey at a later hour."

 

"Oh. That is... a development - you made me curious now."

 

He smiled shyly. "I think you should exit first, Mrs Hughes. I'll join you shortly."

Of course, he didn't want to raise any suspicion among the staff, Elsie thought.

 

"No, you exit first. I need to tell Mrs Patmore not to expect me for dinner. Should I tell her you won't be coming back as well?"

 

"No, no, that would be impr... needless," he finished, biting his tongue. After all, the fact they were going out together was improper already. "Thomas - ahem, Mr Barrow can tell her himself. He'll look forward to announcing the staff he will be acting as butler tonight."

 

Elsie nodded gravely. "I believe you're right. I'll head to the kitchen now. See you in a few minutes."

 

The housekeeper had just started conversing with Mrs Patmore when the butler made a great scene of exiting the house: he lingered in the hallway talking to Mr Bates and explaining he was going to visit an old friend in Ripon and would stay away for most of the evening.

 

After he finally got out, Elsie waited more or less twenty minutes before going out herself.

Once she was outside she regretted exiting after he had: it would take her forever to reach him, she thought despairingly he must have walked at least a mile.

 

Sighing she set off, hoping to reach him soon.

She had been walking for about a mile and a half, the Abbey was well behind her now, but there was no sign of Mr Carson still. Fortunately the weather was merciful, else she would start sweating before even catching a glimpse of him from afar.

She walked further on and,  after a while, she heard an hissing voice calling out impatiently for her. "Psst... Mrs Hughes!"

 

She turned around, spotting the butler behind a large tree. "Mr Carson! What on earth are you doing there?"

 

"What do you think? I was waiting for you!"

 

Hidden behind a tree? She was glad of his caution, however it irked her a little. Was he uncomfortable with the idea of being spotted in her company? Was his possible... _understanding_ with her (she struggled even thinking of the word) so embarrassing for him that he felt the need to be overzealous and scrupulous?

She felt ridiculous even thinking about it, for she knew they were taking a risk, she knew this... _thing_ between them would be frowned upon, she knew it would cause them both the loss of their jobs if Lord Grantham were to hear of it, even if they had been faithful employees to the Crawleys for years. She was aware how much he valued his job, so she would do anything to ensure he kept his position and that she kept hers as well.

 

"Were you?" she asked rhetorically.

 

His expression softened, maybe he had realized his tone had been too sharp. "I was," he replied softly. He neared her and offered her his arm. "Shall we go?"

 

She nodded. "Yes, let's."

 

Her touch set a delicious tingling down his arm. He instantly felt warmer.

They walked in companionable silence, her presence next to him made him walk straighter, his chest puffing out proudly, his head held high.

It was ironic really, the contrast between his over cautious, almost shameful and fearful behaviour because he didn't want to be found in her company outside the Abbey and his proud and satisfied demeanor, whenever he knew they were safely alone, in their own bubble of peacefulness.

 

Her arm was locked with his but, when they reached the village, he let go of her and distanced himself from her person. She instantly felt a lack of warmth, _his_ warmth, together with an increasing sense of disappointment.

She almost let out a frustrated groan. Why things had to be so difficult for them? It pained her more than she could say or admit.

 

When he led her towards Downton station, she couldn't help stopping in her tracks, her expression showing all her surprise. "Where... where are you taking me?"

 

He turned in her direction with a strange, soft smile. "Patience, Mrs Hughes, patience."

 

Elsie's mind was racing wildly. If it was a train then they couldn't be possibly going to Ripon, for they could easily reach it by bus. Even Thirsk was out of the question.

"Are we going to York?" she breathed out suddenly.

 

He turned his head slightly to look at her sideways. "I told you you'd guess soon enough," he mumbled with a half smile, looking quite proudly of her guess.

Her lips curved upwards in a small, victorious grin and she squeezed his arm lightly.

His face lightened in a half smile, however he frowned soon after and gently released himself from her grip.

 

He was ashamed of being seen with her, she knew. It just wouldn't do for butler and housekeeper to be seen together outside of their workplace.

She contained her half exasperated, half resigned sigh. He had always been like this, escaping from her, escaping from facing reality. He lived in a bubble made of luxury and etiquette, hiding from Elsie in the shadows or behind a wall he had built on his own.

The family had always been his excuse not to face reality, not to face _her_. His devotion and support to them had been unconditional, he used it like his own armor, he hid into it to avoid thinking about the past, facing the present, wondering about the future.

 

She had tried, more than once, to bring him out of his misery, to help him take a step further into life, but he had refused her so many times.

What was more, Elsie wasn't what one would define as a patient person. She had often been at her wits' end because of him: that man was capable of driving her crazy with his stubbornness.

She had lost her mind several times with him,  they had bickered, they had fought, but in the end they had always made peace.

 

She had always been patient with him after all. He was a grown up man, but in some ways he was still a child. He needed to be guided, cherished and taught and she, incredibly, had always had the patience for all of that.

 

He quickened his pace and cleared his throat to get her attention, not looking at her. "The train leaves in a few minutes, Mrs Hughes," he informed her gruffly.

 

Was that his way to ask her to walk faster? That was certainly polite, she thought sarcastically.

If she thought they had made progress, she couldn't be more wrong.

They still had miles to go through and they certainly wouldn't go by train.

It surely was going to be a _long_ night.

 


	23. Chapter Twenty - Three: A Start

**Chapter Twenty - Three: A Start**

 

 

The movement of the train was soothing and extremely calming.

Elsie and Charles were the only ones to occupy the compartment and the housekeeper couldn't help but feeling it would be better if someone else was seated with them.

 

They had left Downton Station at least half an hour before and her companion had barely spoke a word to her. Instead he kept glancing out of the window, watching as they travelled away from the country and its vivid summer colours, while fidgeting with his bowler hat.

 

The sigh that involuntarily escaped her lips was pretty loud, but he was so engrossed in his thoughts that he didn't even hear it.

Instead he was startled by her voice calling out his name - not that she had called him snappishly or impatiently; no, her voice had been soft, with a shade of gentle caution - yet he was so lost in thought and lulled by the train that even the merest whisper would make him jolt.

 

Jerked out of his daydream, he looked at her with wide eyes, before shaking his head and running a trembling hand through his hair.

He didn't even mind the pomade sticking to his fingers, Elsie noticed.

 

"Is everything alright, Mr Carson?" she asked tentatively, trying to conceal the insecurity in her voice. "You seem a bit out of sorts," she added gently.

 

"I'm fine, thank you for asking," he rumbled in his deep voice, lying.

He was not fine. He was not fine at all.

A sudden, almost paralysing fear had gripped him tight and had no intention of letting him go.

 

What if he let her down? What if he ruined their day?

He had already put things at stake when he had snapped at her for being late, not to mention when he had distanced himself from her soon as the village came into view; he would swear he saw her face drop.

 

If he could just let it go of all the fear, the pain and the remorse, things would be better, he knew.

He would be a better man, the man she deserved.

A man who cared about her and loved her unreservedly, a man capable of sweeping her off her feet, of protecting her, a man proud to be seen in her company.

He wasn't all of that, he would never be.

But he was selfish enough to try to become that man.

 

It was a decade long inner struggle between his real, fearful self and his fearless butler side; after all those years Mr Carson, butler of Downton Abbey, had swallowed Charles Carson up.

There was no man beneath the livery, no real face behind the mask. He was trained, dedicated... obsessed by his work.

His obsession had closed his eyes, had rendered him blind. He couldn't see the beauty that shone out of her, he hadn't seen in until several months before.

 

She had reached for his true self underneath the livery, behind the mask, she had gently cradled her fragile soul in her arms, she had nourished it.

She had been strong and patient enough to guide him, to show him the way.

And now he stood before a crossroads - which way to take?

The rough and steep one where he would be laying his heart at her feet, or the easy one where he could hide what remained of his heart and lock it away, safe from her strong grasp and irresistible influence.

 

He knew what choice would be safer, without risks: he had lived for years walking downhill, running away from her, because letting her anywhere near him would mean pain.

He had let his true feelings show once and the woman who had won his heart had crushed it beneath her feet, crudely and mercilessly; choosing his best friend over him had been the meanest thing she could do.

 

The last time he had seen Charlie, about ten years before, he had forgotten to ask him about Alice - or maybe he hadn't wanted to.

The mere memory of her left a bitter taste in his mouth.

 

What if he let himself go with her and she turned her back to him? What if Elsie didn't like the Charles Carson that he was?

He didn't even remember how to be Charles Carson, if he was to be honest with himself, but she had managed to remind him a few times - she had managed to remind him how it felt to be alive.

 

He sighed. The crossroads was before him, the choice still looming over him.

He knew what to choose, or at least he would try.

 

"I've always like Yorkshire," he found himself confessing in a casual but soft tone, breaking the thick wall of silence between them.

Elsie, seated in front of him, suddenly looked at him strangely. What was he doing now, trying to make some polite conversation?

 

"I always thought it to be alive. Look at the trees, the hills... they hold a mighty power within them. Look how life springs from the grass, the flowers, the rivers and the birds... it's wild and tame at the same time, it breathes order and stability, harmony and peace," he concluded glancing once again out of the window.

 

Elsie smiled fondly at him, unbeknownst to the man. He didn't realize the effect  his baritone voice had on her, nor how his deep, soft tone enraptured her, how his description of Yorkshire sounded exactly like poetry, despite his saying he was no poet.

"If you think Yorkshire is wild, you haven't seen Scotland, Mr Carson."

 

For the first time since they got on the train, his face betrayed the hint of a smile.

"How is it?"

 

"I reckon the term 'wild' describes Scotland well," she commenced.

"It's wild and untamed, strong and fierce, unbowed and free."

Her blue eyes shone with excitement while describing her native country. Even her accent was more pronounced, her voice sounded crisper, her tongue rolled all the _r_ s.

 

"If only you could see the crystal clear depths of the lochs and hear the mighty sound of the cold wind as it blows..."

 

"I wish I could," he replied honestly.

 

She half-smiled at him. "Maybe one day."

 

He cleared his throat and looked at his feet to conceal the sudden embarrassment. "Do you miss it? Do you miss Scotland?" he asked. "Of course you miss it, what a stupid question," he corrected himself soon after.

 

"Oh no, it's not a stupid question," she reassured him gently. "In some ways I do miss it, dearly. In some others I do not," she concluded, biting her lip.

 

He nodded sympathetically, then lowered his head, his body leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, as if he had been once again kidnapped by a whirl of thoughts in his head.

 

She stared at him, her brows knitted in confusion, waiting for him to say something.

Charles slowly raised his head to look at her; his face showed concern and melancholy, his eyes betrayed insecurity.

 

"Are you happy here, at least?", he asked in a low voice.

She knew what he meant even without his explicitly saying the words. _Sweet man._

 

She smiled tenderly at him. "I am," she responded softly.

 

He tried not to meet her intense gaze, eventually he failed.

That was when Charles Carson chose the right road: the one that led to her heart.

 


	24. Chapter Twenty - Four: Going Forward?

**Chapter Twenty - Four: Going Forward?**

The journey to York was a fairly short one, it lasted a little more than an hour.

They spent the rest of their time on the train in silence, each contemplating what the other was thinking, yet avoiding eye contact. Charles couldn't help stealing a glance of her from time to time, the warm sun kissing her skin, making her clear blue eyes glow. She looked so young while lost in thought, he was completely enthralled by her.

When the train stopped they gathered their things and got off. Charles was the first to descend the steps and then turned to offer his hand to Elsie.

She took his hand hesitantly, glad he was willing to help her, not because she wasn't able to get off the train without him, but because she craved his touch.

Her hand was so small compared to his, so smooth and neat despite the hard work he carried out every day. She guessed that during his footman days they must have been a bit rough and more calloused than now.

He helped her descend, his hand engulfing hers, so small and delicate.

She kept her eyes down until her feet touched the ground, then she raised her head and half smiled at him, her eyes crinkling.

"Shall we go?" he mentioned timidly.

"Yes, of course."

They strolled leisurely towards the centre of the city, it was mid afternoon, the weather was fine and the temperature lenient.

Elsie took everything in with the thirst for knowledge of a young girl: the cathedral, the walls, the little shops...

"Do you like the city?" he asked her, noticing her awe.

"Yes, it's all so cozy and familiar, yet majestic. And the atmosphere in the cathedral was so... spiritual."

"I agree with you, Elsie. York's cathedral is the home of every good Christian believer," he spoke proudly, puffing his chest out. There was no denying he was an Englishman through and through, Elsie thought fondly.

They stopped at a tea shop and enjoyed a warm cup of tea and some scones, though not as good as those of Beryl Patmore, before resuming their touristic strolling.

Elsie stopped at a haberdashery to purhase some sewing goods. Charles marveled at the extension of the shop, full of threads different in consistency and colour, shining thimbles and things he couldn't even name.

Elsie looked like a little girl at Christmas: "I've never seen such a big haberdashery! And so well supplied!" she wispered enthusiastically at him, her eyes shining.

Charles smiled at her fondly, not bothering to hide his affection. It was as if he was in trance and she was the sorceress working the magic over him. Seldom had he looked at her so openly, so affectionately. It was as if being away from Downton allowed him to feel more at ease with his feelings for the woman.

"How much?" Charles asked the cashier once Elsie had deposited all the items on the counter.

She turned, looking at him with big eyes. "Charles, what are you doing?" she asked whispering, while the cashier prepared the package.

"Paying," he stated matter-of-factly.

"It's not you who needs those things, it's me. And I've got money."

He smiled at her "I know you do. But can't I do it for you on a whim?"

Knowing she couldn't win, Elsie raised her eyes to the ceiling sighing "Alright, alright" to which Charles replied with a big goofy smile.

"What else will you treat me to tonight, Mr Carson?" joked the housekeeper once they exited the shop.

"What about dinner, Mrs Hughes?"

Dinner was lovely. Charles brought her to a nice, little restaurant where they ate companionably at the table in the corner, so they could have more privacy.

The food was wonderfully tasty and the wine so amazingly good that Elsie's tastebuds almost sang in praise.

Charles, wine expert that he was, was pretty satisfied himself. He couldn't take his eyes off of his companion for the evening, he admired her blue eyes sparkling and her cheeks reddening because of the wine, her mouth curving in a bashful smile.

She had obviously noticed him looking at her and had gone all shy and awkward like a schoolgirl. It's wasn't like this with Joe Burns, not in the slightest, she tought.

She felt a bit tipsy, the wine had gone to her head, making her smile more and revel in the adoring looks he gave her.

He hadn't even realized he was literally hanging off her words, looking at her with such loving glances one could easily mistake them for a married couple. Which they weren't of course.

Other days this thought would be more than sobering for Charles. But not tonight. Tonight he was drunk on her.

"Don't look so smug, Mr Carson" she half smiled at him.

"I'm not smug, Mrs Hughes. I'm merely glad and a little bit proud, I admit," he replied, although his smile was now definitely smug.

"Of what, may I ask?" she prompted.

"Of spending this evening in your company," he stated clearly, honestly, the wine making him bold.

She could feel herself blush at such compliment.

"Why, Mr Carson, that's kind of you to say that."

"I'm merely stating the truth, Elsie," he spoke softly, placing his hand at the centre of the table, as if on cue for her to take it.

Her hand moved deliberately, as if disconnected from her brain. She placed it near his big one, interlacing her fingers with his. He looked up from their hands, his smile sheepish but genuinely, oh so genuinely touched.

"Your bill, Mister." The voice of the waiter interrupted their eye contact, their silence dripping with affection.

He took his eyes off her, thanking the young man. He paid without saying a word, then rose to help her out of the chair, ever the gentleman.

As they got out, Charles got pensive, she could tell something was on his mind. If only she could know what.

She made to voice her thoughts but was interrupted.

"Mr Carson!"

They turned and spotted a man of about Charles' age walking towards them, a woman at his arm.

"Mr Reed!" Charles boomed, surprised.

"So lovely to see you, Mr Carson! I never thought you'd be in York in this period of the year! You rarely take days off in London, I can't imagine when you're at Downton!" he laughed.

He was a tall man but, differently from Charles, he was quite slim and lanky, with greying hair and beady black eyes. He was dressed smartly and the manner with which the two addressed each other made Elsie think he probably was in service as well and Mr Carson had got to know him while working.

"London?" inquired the lady at his arm.

"Where are my manners: Maud, this is Mr Carson, he works as butler for the Earl of Grantham."

"Nice to meet you, ma'am," Charles greeted, tipping his hat.

"Oh, but you are that Mr Carson! I heard so much of you from Mr Reed! You're a hard worker and an excellent butler I hear!" chirped the woman.

Elsie could swear she saw Charles blush. "Mr Reed is too kind, ma'am. And needless to say, he's excellent at his job as well."

Charles turned to introduce his acquaintance to her. "Mrs Hughes, this Mr Reed, he works for Viscount Ingleby at Snilesworth Lodge. This is Mrs Hughes, she works with me at Downton Abbey. She's the housekeeper."

"We seem to have something in common then," smiled the lady accompaning Mr Reed. "I'm the housekeeper of Snilesworth Lodge."

"What a curious coincidence!" smiled Elsie, visibly amused. "Very nice to meet you, Mrs..."

"Reed. Mrs Reed."

"You never mentioned you had a sister, John" Charles chipped in.

John Reed laughed at the absurdity, "Maud is not my sister, Charles! She's my wife."

From the incredulous look on Charles' face, Elsie knew their lovely evening would soon come to an abrupt end.

 

 


	25. Chapter Twenty - Five: Impasse

**Chapter Twenty - Five: Impasse**

Elsie watched as a perfect evening came crumbling down.

"You are... married?" Charles looked at his colleague with his mouth agape.

"Yes, we married last year," Mr Reed confirmed. "Best decision we have ever made," he smiled tenderly at his wife.

"Congratulations to you both," said Elsie sincerely, trying to break the awkwardness that Charles was creating.

"Thank you, Mrs Hughes," replied politely Maud Reed.

"But... What does the Viscout have to say about this?" Charles' shock was becoming more and more evident.

"He was perfectly alright with it."

"And where do you live now? I'm surprised you're still at his employ," Charles grumbled.

"We live in a small cottage the Viscout granted us on the estate."

"Honestly, Mr Carson, there's nothing to be surprised about, we're in the twentieth century!" exclaimed Mrs Hughes.

"Of course not, Mrs Hughes. I'm sorry for my conduct, Mr Reed, but your news surprised me greatly. Since the Viscount is alright with your current situation and has provided you with a suitable accommodation, I'm glad for you both."

"No offense taken, Mr Carson. I'm happy I have met you tonight and got to know your lovely colleague," he admitted sincerely, his wife humming in agreement.

"It was a happy coincidence for us as well, Mr Reed," smiled Elsie.

It seemed that their conversation was coming to a swift end. Mr Reed shuffled his feet awkwardly. "Well, we must be on our way. Have a good evening, Mrs Hughes, Mr Carson."

"You too, Mr and Mrs Reed."

After they bid their goodbyes, Charles and Elsie resumed their walk towards the station but, differently from before, Charles had gone silent and broody.

His mind was swirling, thoughts racing in his head so rapidly he couldn't keep track.

Mr Reed wasn't the first butler in service to marry. In the last few years he had heard of more marriages than he wanted to admit. Times were changing and butlers were no more willing to sacrifice their private life for their employers. Butlers were marrying housekeepers, lady's maids, even simple maids. And none of their employers bat an eye.

He sighed in hopelessness. On one side he must admit he was glad times were changing and his category could claim more rights to a private life. On the other, his butler sensor was going crazy. A married butler was unheard of as well as being completely unprofessional.

He couldn't do that to the Crawleys, they had given so much to him. Downton was the place where he had grown physically, professionally and humanly. And yet, now that he was at this point, he didn't know if he could keep on ignoring what his heart was trying to tell him. He didn't know if he could ignore the wonderful woman beside him. Could it be possible for them, in some alternate universe, to marry? Would she accept him? Would she accept to spend the rest of her life in the company of his grumpy and inflexible persona?

He had come at an impasse between his professional and private life. Between his strong sense of loyalty and his feelings.

"Are you alright, Mr Carson? Charles?" she asked him tentatively.

Her question seemed to have popped the ball of silence he was enveloped in.

"What? I'm sorry, Mrs Hughes, I was lost in my thoughts."

"You certainly were... I just hope they were not too serious."

He turned to face her, looking at her face for a few seconds (which seemed an eternity to her) with a strange expression, one that Elsie couldn't decipher very well.

"No, they weren't," he lied.

The journey back to home was a quiet one. Elsie and Charles got the last train back to Downton and despite Mrs Hughes' attempts to initiate some conversation and regain the intimacy lost after dinner, Mr Carson persisted in his silence.

They arrived at the station shortly after half past ten, the whole building was enveloped in darkness.

He helped her descend once again, but his eyes were elsewhere, no more looking at her.

Elsie pursued her lips in thought. She certainly had done nothing to upset him, of that she was sure.

Had his silence something to do with their conversation with the Reeds?

She mulled the dilemma in her head.

They walked in silence, the gravel beneath their feet creaking quietly.

"I wish you would tell me what's on your mind," Elsie spoke her thoughts aloud without realising.

Charles stopped in his tracks, looking back at his bewildered companion before sighing. "I'm sorry, I'm ignoring you, Mrs Hughes."

"Are we back to formal titles now?" she couldn't help but ask, emboldened by his apologetic stance.

"I don't know," he sighed, looking at her like a beaten puppy.

She smiled tenderly at him, motioning for him to move away from the street so they could talk properly. He followed her wordlessly, as if she was pulling an invisible string between them and he couldn't help but do her bidding.

They sat on a bench, their legs close yet not touching.

"What is it, Mr Carson?" she asked him, avoiding his birth name if that made him more at ease.

He wrung his hands, looking at the ground. "I don't know how to put it."

"Well, if you were to try I wouldn't judge you," she attempted some humor.

"The world is changing, Mrs Hughes, and we are changing with it," he began enigmatically.

"Is that necessarily a bad thing?"

"I don't know. But what I know is that I'm not always comfortable with change."

'Don't I know,' Elsie thought to herself.

"You see, a lot has changed in these months. Mr Crawley died and Lady Mary was left alone with a newborn child, Lady Edith was jilted at the altar and is now an editor and Lady Sybil left us so suddenly that..." his voice broke at that point. "The fact is, I've never handled change well. I don't handle it well when it doesn't even concern me, I can't imagine when it does."

"I'm sorry to interrupt you, Mr Carson, but I don't know what you mean."

He turned to face her for the first time since they sat on the bench. "What I mean is, Mrs Hugh- Elsie, that something is changing. And that something concerns me."

"And what is it, may I ask?" she wondered after a long pause.

"You."

Elsie looked at him like a deer caught in headlights. "I'm not sure I can be hearing this right."

"Oh, but you are. You see, after all this time, I've finally come to my senses. The reason I didn't send you those letters was because I was afraid. Afraid that you'd think me improper - and with reason. Afraid that you'd push me away. And after all this time I realized that I've only been a coward." He took a deep breath, she could only imagine how arduous it was for him, to speak openly like that.

"Why would you think such a thing?" Elsie asked, breathless.

"Because when I got back from London I realized how wrong I was. I should have sent you those letters after all, for you missed a good friend as I missed you.

How silly of me to think I could wipe away years of cowardice by asking you to come with me to York," he laughed bitterly.

"My resolve crumbled the moment I heard Mr and Mrs Reed were married. A butler and a housekeeper married, it is unheard of, frowned upon!" he sighed again, at a loss for words.

"Are you upset because they're married?" she questioned, her voice a murmur.

"Yes. I couldn't help but think what would happen if things were... different for me. However closing up was easier than voicing my thoughts. What an old curmudgeon I am."

On a boost of confidence and boldness, Elsie took his big hand in hers. "Charles, please. You mustn't think of yourself like that." Her thumb started drawing circles on the back of his hand. He squeezed hers, his dark brown eyes looking deeply into hers. "Changes are part of life and if you can't make it by yourself, well, that's what... friends are for," she hesitated in saying the word friends, for he hadn't drawn a line yet and she didn't know exactly where they were heading with the conversation.

"I know I am grumpy and stuck in my ways. I have nothing to say in my defense, except that I made several mistakes. Nevertheless, I hope you can find it in you to forgive me, because I don't know what I would do without you, Elsie."

His confession left her breathless once again. "I don't know what I should forgive you for."

"I believe you do. And I hope you won't find me improper when I say that I have fallen in love with you."

Had he really said it or had she imagined it? Her eyes grew as big as saucers, her cheeks flaming red. She opened her mouth but nothing came out.

Charles, poor man, shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. "I hope I haven't made you ill at ease with my-"

Next thing he knew her lips were firmly touching his, robbing him of speech and filling him with emotion. His heartfelt speech was interrupted by the feel of her soft lips on his, of his big hands clasped in her small ones. Charles could feel his heart thumping madly in his chest.

When she broke the kiss, he could still taste her on his lips. Her scent was everywhere around him.

"Elsie..." he murmured, before all ability of speech left him.

Elsie looked at him, eyes shining with unshed tears, her mouth cracking a smile.

"Haven't we both made mistakes? Why should you belittle yourself before my eyes?"

"Because I wronged you deeply," he admitted gravely.

"And I couldn't care less," she deadpanned before laughing through tears. "Don't you see, you silly man, that you're everything to me?" One of her hands moved to his face, now a mask of disbelief and sincere surprise. She caressed his cheek, looking at him  _oh so_ lovingly he thought his heart might burst from emotion.

"You mean... You mean that you..."

"Yes," she whispered, her face so close to his he could feel her breath on his lips. "Yes, Charles."

He cupped her face with his big hands before kissing her. She responded in kind, her soft lips grazing his, her arms lacing behind his neck, her fingers stroking his scalp.

When they broke the kiss, he was looking at her adorantly and she couldn't help but smile in response, before whispering: "You might be an old curmudgeon but you are  _my_  curmudgeon and that makes all the difference."


	26. Chapter Twenty - Six: Sweet Awakenings

**Chapter Twenty – Six: Sweet Awakenings**

His hands on her face felt warm and soft. Isobel stumbled a bit while walking through the clearing, Richard's hands on her eyes as a blindfold. A giggle escaped her as she braced herself on his arms to prevent herself from falling. He stopped abruptly to check if she was alright, when she assured him she was, he let out a relieved sigh. "We are almost there don't worry."

Her response made his heart sing. "I'm not worried, I trust you, Richard."

"I'm glad of it," he replied, his voice thick with barely hidden emotion.

They walked for another few meters, before he leaned in and whispered in her ear, making her shiver deliciously, "Are you ready?"

"I am."

He lifted his hands from her eyes, holding her at the waist. Isobel's eyes squinted at the sunlight. A small gasp betrayed her surprise as her lips curved in a pretty O, which she quickly covered with her left hand. Her right one flew to grip one of his arms tightly. "Did you arrange this for me, Richard?"

He chuckled "And who do you think I arranged this for, the fairies?"

"It's beautiful," she murmured, moved by what stood before her. He nodded wordlessly, his hand trialing down her lower back to gently guide her to the spot where he had prepared a picnic for them. 

Isobel was left quite speechless at Richard's thoughtful gesture and followed him with her mouth slightly open. She thought she must look pretty dumb, since Richard was trying to stifle a grin at her wonderstruck expression.

Once they reached the quilt he laid down, the doctor gestured for her to sit and make herself comfortable. "Richard," she began as soon as she was settled, "I don't even know how to begin to thank you for-"

He held up a hand to stop her but she continued "For everything you have done, really, today has been quite lovely and now…"

"Isobel…"

"You have prepared all this, for me…"

"Isobel I see no reason to-"

"You left me without words, honestly, I don't recall the last time someone set up such a lovely-"

"Isobel, my dear, will you please stop talking for once?"

Mrs Crawley looked at him as though his whiskers had turned green. Then she lowered her eyes, her cheeks flaming red under his gentle and patient gaze. What had she done to deserve a man like him? "Of course," she mumbled. "I'm sorry."

He chuckled good-naturedly. "Isobel, please, don't apologise. I just meant to say there is no need for you to thank me. I did this because I wanted to, because it made me happy as I hope it makes you happy."

"It does, Richard. You make me happy."

He smiled at her like a child at Christmas. "I did this because I care for you," he said, nearing her on the quilt and taking her hand in his. "You entered my life and changed it completely. I don't know what I would do without you."

Isobel sniffed, her eyes glistening. "It is I," she began, her voice thick with emotion, "who wouldn't know what to do without you, Richard. You've been my greatest friend in these months, since Matthew…" she faltered. He squeezed her hand and encouraged her to continue.

"Since Matthew died," she let out with a shocking breath. It was the first time she acknowledged the fact aloud since George's birth and her poor boy's death.

"You supported me patiently, helped me find the little strength I still had in me." She leaned closer, her tears now flowing freely down her cheeks. "You helped me fight against the weaker side of myself. You showed me things worth living for, you taught me to have faith in the future. You're my hope, Richard Clarkson, and for this I thank you immensely."

He cupped her face in his hands, his light blue eyes boring into her shining dark brown ones, his heart swelling with pride at the words of that brave, strong woman who was giving her heart to him.

He enveloped her in a tight hug, her cheek pressing on his shoulder, her soft hair grazing the side of his neck, not caring one bit if her tears wet the starched whiteness of his shirt. Right now, right there, he was where he was always meant to be: right by her side.

**. . .**

Elsie woke up with the scullery maids that morning. She couldn't stay in bed, hadn't slept a wink if that mattered. Her heart beat too fast, the butterflies in her stomach fluttered restlessly. She felt like a fifteen year old dealing with her first crush.

When she finally got down, Beryl was already in the kitchen, helping Daisy with some complicated dish they needed to prepare for lunch. "Well, look who's already up and about!"

"Good morning, Mrs Patmore."

"You don't look particularly cheerful today, has something happened?" said the cook, nearing her to whisper conspiratorially.

Elsie shook her head, amazed at her ability to hide her excitement. "Oh no, nothing bad happened."

"Oh well, better for you two, then! Come on, give me all the details…" quipped Beryl while Elsie sat at the kitchen table and busied herself with the linen rota.

"Honestly, Mrs Patmore, I don't think it's proper to-" she started, not sure the kitchen was a proper setting for such inquiry.

"You stayed out until the wee hours of the morning, didn't you, missy?" came the gentle teasing of Beryl.

Elsie didn't pay much attention to what the cook was saying, preferring to keep herself to her business. "Ignoring me, are you?" quipped her friend.

"Very much so," replied Elsie.

"Then I guess old Charlie has made a move!"

Elsie turned to face Mrs Patmore, her mouth agape for a moment. "What  _old Charlie_  does is none of your business!" she hissed, slightly annoyed.

"I hope you are not referring to me by talking of old Charlie, Mrs Patmore" came the booming voice of Mr Carson.

Beryl straightened up quickly, as if he had caught her with her hand in the cookie jar. "Oh, good morning to you too, Mr Carson. I didn't see you standing there."

"I'm most certain you didn't, Mrs Patmore," reprimanded Carson, although his half smile betrayed his good mood. "Can I have a word with you, Mrs Hughes? It's about the guests that are coming today."

"Of course," replied Elsie, standing up and gathering her things. "Why don't you join me in my parlour?"

He followed her under the knowing gaze of the cook, who was perfectly aware that something was going on between those two.

"So, what do you want to tell me?" said Elsie as soon as he closed the door after them.

"Oh, actually, everything is in order for today. I just wanted an excuse to talk to you. And it seemed that Mrs Patmore was giving you quite the hard time."

Elsie chuckled. "Well, she was just curious. I mean, can we really blame the poor woman for wanting some gossip? It's not as if something exciting happens here every day."

"Exciting, huh?" Charles smiled widely.

Elsie blushed a little and bit her lip in embarrassment. She still couldn't believe what was happening between them, it felt all so new and yes, exciting. And she felt so… inexperienced. Like she had missed out on a great part of her life. But after all, that was a part of serving, renouncing even to the most important steps in one's life. "Yes. It all feels a little strange," she admitted, shuffling her feet.

He neared her carefully. "What do you mean?" he asked, in a low voice. "Are you regretting what happened last night?"

She took his hand in hers to reassure him. "Not in the slightest. I merely meant that this… thing between us will take some getting used to."

"I know it will, but I'm sure we will be able to make it. Together."

"Yes, we will," she replied, circling her thumb on his hand.

He felt emboldened by her gentle touch. "And while we are at it, why not start now," he whispered, before catching her lips in a soft kiss.

She reached behind him and rested her hand on the nape of his neck, bringing him closer. He smelled of soap and cologne and his big hands on her waist made her feel cherished and protected. Never in her life would she have imagined having a man like Charles Carson by her side. She was totally besotted by the way he looked and smiled at her, by the way his lips felt on hers, by how her body molded into his. 

When they broke the kiss, she brought her hands to his face, gently caressing his face before chastely kissing him once again. "I should go, heaven knows what would Beryl say if she discovered what we were up to."

She made to open the door but Charles pulled her to him once again. She collided with his body, her hands on his wide chest to keep her balance. "Let her talk, then," he mumbled, before dipping his head to kiss her deeply once again. 

'Yes', thought Elsie, 'let her talk.' 

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews make my day. Thank you for reading.


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